


Acquired Serendipity

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: A whole lot of love, Emotional Support, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I love these nerds, Pregnancy, Romance, Some Whump, Some angst, snuggles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-22 09:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13761270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: Iris and Barry decide to expand their family and have a baby.Only catch: nothing is guaranteed when you're trying to conceive, and pregnancy is a long road ahead.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my friends! Don't worry, this is just a two-parter, because I really, *really* wanted to read some good ol' Westallen pregnancy fic, and where else to find it than to write it? First part is all about trying to conceive, second part is all about the pregnancy itself. (And, perhaps, a little beyond!) I sincerely hope you enjoy, and I'll try to have the next part up by the end of the week.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and "Intermission: Barry" refers to Barry's POV, whereas the remaining segments are all Iris' POV. I wanted to make it very clear who was talking, and Barry only has a few parts, so I didn't want there to be any confusion!

_Intermission: Barry._

T-minus 441 days.

"Hey, Bar?"

"Mm-hm?" Standing on top of a chair, Barry sticks out his tongue as he unscrews the lightbulb in the kitchen. "Did she pick Derek?"

"Who?"

"Silver fox." Tucking the old bulb into his Batman shorts' pocket, he adds, "No?"

"N – I don't know." Iris flicks off  _The Bachelorette_ and gets up from the couch, approaching him. "Babe, focus."

"In three – two – one." He clicks the new bulb into place and beams as it lights up, hopping down and twirling to face her. "Oh hey you're really close to me—" His gaze drifts down to the laptop in her hands, screen facing him, and  _that_  – is an adorable baby. "Aw," he says. "Whose kid?"

"Nobody's." He cocks his head to one side. "I don't know. Stranger's on the Internet."

"Uh huh." Flicking his gaze up to meet hers, he asks, "And you're … looking up babies on the Internet because you…" He blinks. Then he grins, warmth fanning across his chest. "For real?"

"I'm not saying we have to do anything  _now_ ," she assures quickly, setting her laptop down on the kitchen table. He saunters closer; she wraps her arms around his bare chest, holding onto her own wrist behind his back. He flattens his hands against her shoulders, swaying lightly. "We're young. We can wait."

"Yeah, but – we don't  _have_ to wait," he points out with a sly smile. "You know?"

"Barry." She squeezes his waist. "Be serious. Do you want a baby?"

He thinks about it for a moment before making an affirmative noise. "Yeah?" She lifts her eyebrows challengingly. "I mean, I wanna be a dad someday, that's never changed," he assures. "And we've been married for two years, so it's not like we haven't enjoyed the glow of being alone together.  _I_ think we're ready."

She hums, sliding her hands down his sides before settling them at the band of his Batman shorts. "We're gonna be millennial parents, aren't we?"

Barry pretends to think about it. "Mm-hm." She plucks the bad lightbulb out of his pocket and sets it on the table, reeling him in closer. Between the summer heat and her proximity in nothing but boy shorts and a bra, it's really workin' for him. "So, about that baby…."

Iris rolls her eyes, but when she leans up on tiptoe to kiss him, there's only affection and heat and something like giddiness bubbling between them.

They're gonna have a  _baby_.

* * *

_Main: Iris._

T-minus 440 days.

"Two days a month, huh?"

"Mm-hm."

"That's pretty narrow."

Iris shrugs, gliding her hand down his arm, brushing against the grain of the hairs there. "I think we can make it work."

Lying flat on his back next to her in their bed, Barry tilts his head to look at her, hair tussled. He smirks. "Yeah?" He has one arm behind his head and the other curled around her, thumb stroking her shoulder. Speed-purrs fill the space between them like rainfall, soft and soothing. "You think we can? Seems …" yawning, he shuffles closer and finishes, "like a real challenge. Might take us more than one try."

Iris rolls her eyes and reaches up to ruffle his hair. He buries his nose between her neck and shoulder, making a halfhearted reproving sound. Curling an arm up behind his shoulders, she strokes the base of his neck. His half-lidded eyes slide shut. "It can happen during any time. That's just the best window. According to the Internet."

He hums, sliding his hand down to brush the small of her back. "Do we trust the Internet?"

"Occasionally," she replies. "It's science. You love science."

"I do love science," he agrees, yawning again and concluding, "but I love you more."

She drapes a leg over both of his, holding onto him. "I love you."

* * *

T-minus 438 days.

"I will end the  _man_ who decided periods were an acceptable thing," Iris vows, hugging a pillow.

"Mm, just let me take a whack at him before you finish him off," Linda replies, sitting on the opposite side of the couch. "So. What'd he say?"

Iris leans over to snag the open mini-carton of mint chocolate chip ice cream from the coffee table. "What'd who say?"

Linda rolls her eyes, reaching for a strawberry carton. "Soon-to-be-baby-daddy, RE: baby?" she prompts.

Iris pops a generous spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, feigning ignorance. She can't hold it for long, a secretive smile finally giving her away. Linda slaps Iris' foot lightly, gushing, "He said yes?"

Iris tucks the spoon into her mouth, smiling and nodding once.

* * *

T-minus 432 days.

They go to the zoo, and Barry muses almost out of the blue, "What do you think their favorite animal's gonna be?"

Swinging their intertwined hands, Iris muses, "Polar bear."

"That's your favorite."

"Okay, Mister." She lets go of his hand, walking backwards on the long wooden walkway between exhibits. There's rain in the air, and it's near closing, but she loves it. Summer is her favorite. "What do  _you_ think?"

He smiles, holding out a hand and taking hers, lifting his arm after a beat so she can do a little twirl under it, pretty yellow sundress fanning around her. "Polar bear," he says at last.

She laughs, and holds his hand in the rain.

* * *

T-minus 431 days.

NASA has a word for it, a simple sterile acronym: LOS. Loss of Signal.

One moment Barry is saying on the other side of comms, " _Guys, I'm not picking up on_ —"

Then the audio cuts out. Iris' grip on the central console tightens, but she forces herself to mentally step back, to standby.  _It's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine._  "— _got anything on your side?_ " Barry finishes, uninterrupted. " _Guys?_ "

Iris exhales. "You went dark for a second," Cisco chimes in, feet up on the table, a Red Vine hanging from his mouth. "You good?"

" _Yup, just not seeing anything unusual. Remind me what I'm looking for?_ "

"According to the rumor mill, an orca," Cisco says. "And yes, I mean the literal and actual animal."

" _I thought you were kidding._ "

"Buddy." Cisco levels an unimpressed look at the mic. "I never kid."

" _…A'right._ "

Iris sinks back into her chair as the comms go silent once more.

"Y'okay?" Cisco asks after a beat, swiveling in his seat and holding out his pack of Red Vines to her. 

Sighing, Iris takes one and bites into it. There's something to eating sweets in high-stress situations. They play the danger off – they have to, or there's no way any of them would go out into the field – but it doesn't make the uncertainty any easier.

LOS means one of two things: 1) everything is fine or 2) nothing is.

She polishes off the Red Vine, and the panic beacon lights up.

Cisco is out of his chair in a second, levity forgotten. He's already suited up; he just throws open a breach, says shortly, "Be right back," and vanishes before Iris can even think to follow him.

The little panic beacon continues flashing red on the computer. She's staring at it until it's all she can see, and then a breach opens in the middle of the Cortex and Barry and Cisco tumble out of it. Cisco has an arm around Barry, who is slouched at a fairly steep angle towards the floor. Iris rushes forward to help support him on the opposite side and gets a caterwauling cry, letting go instantly. "Easy, easy, easy," Cisco chants.

Stepping back, Iris feels Barry's blood on her shoulders. It only takes her a second to zero in on his left arm, dangling awkwardly at his side and torn open at the elbow, like something caught him by the back of it and refused to leave empty-handed. Which is likely exactly what happened, she realizes, dazed, as Cisco and Barry stagger over to a gurney. Barry half-sits, half-collapses onto the bed. "Gotta—set it," he grunts, face ashen pale, and Cisco's breath punches out of him.

"Okay – all right."

They should never have done this without Caitlin, Iris thinks, stepping forward and cautiously taking up Cisco's spot as he moves over to Barry's left arm. "Hey," she says, and he lets out a thin little gasping noise that might be  _hey_  but is likely just another enunciation of pain.

"Gauze," he pants, gesticulating anxiously at his mouth. Iris doesn't understand, but on auto-pilot she fetches a roll. When she hands it to him, he shoves it between his teeth, his groans muffled but louder than before.

"Okay," Cisco says, and Iris sits next to Barry, heart pounding. "All right, okay. This is – not gonna lie, this is gonna suck."

Barry nods, his hand maintaining a death-grip on the cushion. Iris rests her own on top of it, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. She knows better than to pry it free, because he can and has broken Cisco's hand on two occasions. He needs to be able to break, to press down as hard as he has to, and he won't do that with her hand. He just won't, and she knows it hurts him to have to think about her when he's out of his mind with pain, so she rests her hand on top of his instead, her cheek against his shoulder, and silently chants,  _I'm here, I'm here, I'm here_.

When Cisco counts down, she closes her eyes, and braces for impact.

* * *

T-minus 428 days.

Propped up on his elbows, heedless of the nonexistent scar on his left arm, Barry frames her on the bed and asks softly, "You okay?"

Iris glides a hand down his side, flattening it against his hip for a moment before stroking upward again. "I love you," she replies softly, neither answer nor explanation. He hums, leaning down to kiss her, detouring to press little butterfly kisses along her jaw. She brings her hand up to cup the nape of his neck, scratching lightly. He hums his approval against her shoulder, happy and sleepy, and she slides her other arm around him, holding onto him. "I love you." A tear tracks down her cheek.

He lifts his head up to look into her eyes, and his gaze slides down to the tear before he leans forward to kiss it away. "Shh," he says softly, and she isn't even crying, not really, but she hugs him so tightly that she trembles. His soothing Speed-purr kicks up almost on cue. "S'okay, I'm here."

And maybe she is crying, a little, tiny hitching breaths that just draw more of that affectionate Speed warmth from him, his voice a soft, continuous croon as he nuzzles her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. "Everything's okay, we're okay, we're okay."

When he says it, she dares to believe it's true.

* * *

T-minus 425 days.

Barry sleeps ninety-six minutes a night, which means it's nearly impossible to wake up before him, but sometimes Iris is permitted a sweet exception.

She feels the warmth around her waist, his arm still draped over her, before she even opens her eyes. She can hear the soft little noises he makes in his sleep behind her shoulder, more purr than snore, each breath deep and even. For summer, it's approaching sweltering to be under the covers with him, and on any normal day she might kick them off, because he's not usually  _here_. He's a softy for hugs and cuddles, but he's allergic to staying still for more than – well, ninety-six minutes at a time. Even in his sleep, he moves – a lot. Iris is used to finding him on the floor, tangled in blankets.

She rests her hand on top of his, stroking her thumb against his skin. His fingers twitch, just a little, barely a movement at all, and he shimmies closer to her with a deep, pleased sigh, making no other conscious move.

Golden light peers hopefully under the curtains, enticing her with a new day, but Iris doesn't move, savoring the sweetness of her sleeping speedster.

* * *

T-minus 420 days.

Pinning his thumb down with hers idly, lying on the couch between Barry's legs, Iris muses, "Eight more days."

"Hm?" He kisses her temple, using his free hand to flick through the TV channels, volume muted. "Till what?"

"Till we know," she says evasively.

He hums, catching on quickly. It's not hard – it's all that's been on their minds, lately.  _Baby, baby, baby_. "What if it takes …  _nine_  days?" he teases, freeing his thumb for a moment and pinning hers gently. "Is it a dragon baby if it's late?"

She rolls her eyes and pinches the skin between his thumb and forefinger, making him yelp. "We're trying to have a  _human_ baby, Bartholomew."

"Aww." Squeezing her with both arms, he remarks playfully, "But think about how much  _fun_ it would be to raise a dragon."

"It would burn down our apartment."

"Moving is – a great bonding exercise."

"That's exactly what you said last time."

"Hey, until I tripped down the stairs, it  _was_ a great bonding exercise."

"Because Cisco brought pizza and Jenga."

"We could teach the dragon to play Jenga. I'm sure Cisco would bring pizza again."

She rolls around in his arms and rests her folded arms on his chest. "Babe."

He settles a hand on the middle of her back. "Darling."

She rolls her eyes, leaning up to kiss him. "Nerd."

He smiles at her, eyes full of stars. "Khaleesi."

She laughs and says, "If you wanna watch  _Game of Thrones_ that badly—"

"I really, really do," he says at once, flicking the volume up and oh, look at that: he's already on the right channel. Nerd.

Pillowing her cheek on his chest, she murmurs, "Don't get ideas."

"Mm-hm."

"I'm serious."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

* * *

_Intermission: Barry._

T-minus 412 days.

"So?" Cisco one-two punches Barry's chest, a playful gesture, but Barry just sighs as he steps into the Cortex.

"No," he says shortly, sliding into a chair. He shrugs, attempting nonchalance. At least he's not the one who has to deal with cramps and mood swings. "I mean, it's fine."

Cisco frowns, setting a hip on the console. "Yeah, but – you're allowed to be a lil' disappointed, too. What with being the fastest man alive." Barry arches both eyebrows and looks at him until Cisco says exasperatedly, " _You know what I meant_."

"Ooh,  _love_ me some good drama," Ralph announces, setting down a six-pack of beers on the counter. "What's the 4-1-1?"

"Why are we drinking at ten in the morning?" Cisco counters.

"Oh, these're for later," Ralph says, lifting a cooler onto the console. "I thought we could take a good ol' Thursday afternoon off so we boys could crack open a cold one at the beach."

"There is a 90 percent chance of rain this afternoon," Cisco points out dryly.

Ralph laughs. "Those predictions are—" Thunder rumbles quietly. The distinct patter of rain rat-a-tat-a-tats on the rooftop. Shrugging, Ralph waves a hand dismissively. "It'll pass."

"Uh huh."

"Ye of little  _faith_ ," Ralph says, stepping up and smacking Barry on the shoulder. "Back me up, buddy."

In response, Barry pulls out his phone, Flashes through a quick search, and swivels the screen around to face Ralph. A time-lapse radar image shows clear green patches of precipitation drifting across Central City until well after five PM.

Sighing, Ralph plucks a beer from the pack and says simply, "Cracking open a warm one with the boys at the lab doesn't have the same ring to it."

* * *

T-minus 411 days.

It's hard to focus at work.

She  _wanted_ a baby _,_ and Barry wanted a baby, and they were ready, but, evidently, the universe did not agree. She can't help but think about the emptiness in her belly with every cramp, a low-burning frustration keeping her edgy all day. She writes rough drafts to distract herself and ignores Barry's texts, mostly because she just doesn't want to think about anything, at all, except what  _is_ , rather than what  _could be_.

 _We're young. We'll try again_.

Future promises don't quell her present impatience and disappointment. In some selfish little corner of her mind, she'd hoped that they would be the exception to the rule.  _Most couples don't get pregnant the first try_ , she consoles herself, but it's a stale comfort. She  _wanted_. Surely that should have been enough. There was no reason it shouldn't have happened.

To make matters worse, it rains – all day, from the minute she steps into the CCPN main room to the minute she steps out. She's sulky and sullen by the time she gets home, throwing her bag off to one side near the door. Barry isn't around – it's too dark for him to be home – and she exhales, toeing off her shoes and trying to cool off. It's just one chance. They have  _so many_.

She doesn't spot the little note on the table until after she showers. Feeling somewhat more like herself once, she cozies up in her favorite bathrobe and opens the window to listen to the pouring rain. Wandering back into the kitchen, she peels a note off a small, unlabeled box of chocolates, unfolding it.

_I love you to the ends of the Earth and back._

_Barry_

Plucking one of the chocolates out of the little case, she closes her eyes. Mm.

She loves a speedster-hubby who can Flash across the world to fetch her the finest chocolates from France on a whim.

When he finally shows up, she's polished off four of the ten sweets and is curled up on the couch with  _Moana_ and a heating pad. He doesn't ask her about her day, which she appreciates – if she wanted to talk, she'd have said  _hello_  – but he does amble over and, when she slides her legs off the couch so he can sit, obliges. She shuffles around so she can settle against him, still hugging the heating pad. He's warm, deliciously warm against her aching back, and the arm he tucks around her is soft and secure.

At some point, his stomach growls. Without displacing her, he reaches out to pluck one of the chocolates out of its wrapping and pop it into his own mouth. She doesn't begrudge him; he can always fetch more, if he's so inclined, and the way he purrs is worth every one of them.

Together, they watch the movie, the backdrop of rain like an apology, healing what words cannot.

* * *

T-minus 404 days.

Iris runs down the empty beach, racing across the sand. It's warm but not scalding this late in the day, the sun nearly below the horizon, the sky a soft baby-blue. She hears Barry laugh somewhere far behind her, crowing, "Run, Iris! Run!"

Powerful, in her element, she does, racing across the shoreline until there is a pleasant burn in her calves and chest, a warmth like lightning in her veins, going and going and going until at last she canters to a halt in the shallow waves. There is a beat, and then she feels the air shift just before he skips into the water with a laugh of his own. "Look at you," he exults. "The fastest woman alive." He sweeps her clean off her feet, twirling her in a circle. Affection melts over her.

When he sets her down, she reaches up to cup his face, bringing their foreheads together and closing her eyes. His fingers encircle her wrists, holding on, keeping them together.

They stay like that for a long time, she still catching her breath and he chuckling faintly, basking in their own happy little nowhere on a beach no one but a speedster could take her to.

* * *

_Intermission: Barry_.

T-minus 400 days.

"You're glowin', Barry," Winn Schott Jr., CSI extraordinaire, remarks in his drawling twang. Barry had to double-take when Singh mentioned his new partner –  _in your absence, we've had to make a few adjustments_ – but had assured the man that they'd get along just swell. And so they had. Still, he tries to keep his stupid smile to a minimum, knowing that it'll just make him a giggly  _dork_ all day if he indulges it.

"What've we got on the Henderson case?" he redirects, picking up a blue folder.

"Glowin'," Winn insists before dutifully launching into a spirited rehashing of the case.

Despite his own intentions, Barry can't stop thinking about Iris. He hasn't been this giddy in  _years_ , and maybe it's silly to feel so warmed by the thought that Iris and he are trying to have a  _baby_  – a real, live, human baby – but he doesn't care. All he feels is … sunny. Just like the weather, matter of fact.

God, he loves his life.

* * *

T-minus 387 days.

In some symphonic pieces, there is a lull, a departure, a period where the exultant rallying cry becomes a somber melody, an emotion unutterable in words but perfectly understandable in verse. It draws a hush, not only over the audience, but over the entire orchestra, until it seems that it is not a piece being played so much as it is a color being witnessed for the very first time. No one knows how to verbalize exactly what it is that they see, but all partake in the wonder of the experience in their own way. Somehow, some way, they all understand the underlying tinge of sadness, the expectation that an emotion so pure may not even exist in real life, that it will vanish once its final notes fade.

It is this all-consuming, utterly silencing feeling that holds her fast as another opportunity slips through the fingers, and the world acquires a new shade, an unutterable shade of blue, labeled simply  _Try Again_.

* * *

T-minus 356 days.

With gleeful expectation, she finally breaks out the pregnancy test. It's nearing the end of August and she knows what they say: third time's the charm. She can feel it, in her core, in her  _soul_. Third time's the charm.

Three tests spanning three days only confirm one thing:

Third time is not the charm.

* * *

T-minus 352 days.

"Most couples take three to six months to succeed."

"Mm."

"So, we're … average?"

Iris sighs, approaching Barry, seated at the kitchen table, and resting her hands on his shoulders. "Know what sounds  _amazing_  right now?" she murmurs, chin on top of his head.

"Hm?" he asks, thumb stroking her elbow.

"Pizza."

With a soft huff of a laugh, he says, "Pizza."

"Mm-hm."

"We can get pizza."

She squeezes him gently, and the tears burn her eyes but do not escape. "I love you."

"I love you," he replies, lifting her hand and kissing the back of it.

They do get pizza –  _Coast City_ pizza, the pinnacle of pizza, the greatest culinary experience ever known to humanity – and it makes something sore in Iris' chest ache a little less.

* * *

T-minus 330 days.

One pink bar has never looked so disappointing.

* * *

T-minus 327 days.

Iris doesn't feel sad – not at first, not in the full-blown sobbing way that she expects – but she doesn't feel like herself for the better part of a week. She goes through the motions, aching with hopefulness until a different ache replaces it. Nothing overtly changes – she even continues to make light conversation, the usual how-was-your-day song-and-dance expected of a good spouse – but inwardly, she feels like a light has gone off, and she doesn't know how to fix it.

At last, she tells Barry, "We should take a break."

He blinks at her, looking up from a case report at the table, preoccupied and concerned. "What?"

"We should take a break," she repeats firmly, suddenly confident. Something slumps out of his shoulders, a guilty expression crossing his face. "What?" she asks, suddenly defensive, crossing her arms over her chest.

He shakes his head, reaching up to rub his face with a hand. "Nothing." Looking back down at the papers, he adds in a dull voice, "We can take a break."

"Barry."

"Hm."

She sighs, stepping towards him and setting both hands on the table in front of him. "Hey."

He looks up. He looks tired, shadows darkening under his eyes, hair a little more mussed up than usual. "Hi," he says neutrally.

"We're not giving up," she says.

He nods, distracted, but he won't meet her gaze anymore. "Yeah."

"I know you're upset--"

He shakes his head. "I'm not."

"Barry."

"I'm  _not_ ," he insists stubbornly, because he's nothing if not stubborn, that is Barry's middle name,  _Barry Stubborn West-Allen_. "I'm just …" He rubs his eyes a little more firmly. "What if … what if we  _can't_ … because of … all this?" He holds up a hand. There's a little flicker of yellow lightning between his fingers when he snaps them together.

Her stomach twists. "It's only been …"  _Four months_. She hates that she knows the number, that she's been keeping track at all, because it feels like forever. The sweetness of summer has faded; fall is approaching, drawing warmer clothes out of her wardrobe. Scarfs and sweaters and mittens, soon enough. God. Where does the time  _go?_  "We need a break," she says seriously.

He looks at her for a long moment, blinking once, processing. "Okay," he says at last, softly.

Something achingly sad and relieved sweeps over her, and she has to cradle his face and kiss his forehead, or she might cry, and she doesn't want to cry.

"I love you," she insists, like a promise.

He sniffs, once, almost but not entirely inaudibly. "I love you," he echoes, soft and sincere.

* * *

T-minus 321 days.

They go to the zoo, again, and he doesn't ask her about polar bears, or twirl her under his arm.

When they see a couple stroll by, a toddler swinging between them, they smile perfunctorily and quietly tuck away the sting of jealousy that arises.

They spend a great deal of time at the emperor penguin exhibit, of all things, watching the birds march in idle patterns across the ice-packed terrain. They don't move quickly and they hem and haw but not loudly. It's a surprisingly pleasant mixture of normalcy.

Standing beside him in front of the glass wall, Iris holds onto Barry's arm with both of her own, resting her cheek against his shoulder. It's cold in the hall with the air conditioner piping into the exhibit in front of them, but they don't move. Barry projects enough heat to keep them comfortable and together they watch the penguins trundle on, quiet, peaceful, as rhythmic as the tides.

She doesn't know why it makes her cry, watching the penguins, but it does. Barry tilts his head to kiss her temple, acknowledgment without words, and she cannot say what it is about the penguins that finally lets the hurt free. Whatever the reason, she is glad that Barry is beside her.

* * *

T-minus 309 days.

They make blueberry pancakes. They stop dozens of crimes. They play cards. They go bowling. Sometimes, they shower together.

They take naps on the couch and spend all-nighters at STAR Labs, hurting but healing. They throw themselves into their works and produce a great sheaf of papers between them. They save the city, quietly and ostensibly, heroes by their trades.

They go to the museum and gaze in wonder at the dinosaurs. They hold hands. They get coffee at Jitters; they get chocolates from Switzerland. They wash dishes. They watch  _Project Runway_. They take selfies together.

Everything is normal, and the same, and fine.

And still, even as Iris lies in bed across from Barry, one leg draped over both of his, nothing between them, she can't help but wonder if she isn't waiting for a new normal. If she isn't anxious for a new normal. She looks at him and reaches up to smooth back his ruffled hair, making his eyelids flutter shut for a moment before he blinks at her again, half-lidded and smiling a little.

In spite of everything. Because of everything.

Intertwining their hands, she rests them on his side, a safe, neutral, meaningless place. She keeps them there, and he looks at her, and doesn't need to say a word to express his understanding.

Feeling bolder, determined, she brings their hands to rest over her belly instead. She holds their hands there, long enough to say it without saying it,  _I want a baby_ , and then she lets his hand go so she can cuddle up to him even closer, head under his chin.

His Speed-purrs lull her to sleep. She swears there is something satisfied and hopeful in them that wasn't there before.

* * *

T-minus 282 days.

They strike out. Again.

Five months.

No pregnancy.

* * *

T-minus 275 days.

It changes their intimacy.

Love is an awkward thing between them, now, because he is afraid to imply anything and she is afraid to hope for anything, however quietly, however unconsciously. They still kiss, but only chastely, and less often than before. Hands don't wander or linger like they used to, vanishing like snuffed-out candles. They spend a lot of time holding each other because there is no expectation there, and it is easy and sweet and fulfilling on a deep level that they both need, even though she aches for more.

They visit the penguins a lot, now, often going to the zoo simply to make the trek to that cold, Antarctic exhibit and find a sense of peace. Of true normalcy.

The penguins have no idea that they are broken. The penguins do not know that they are unable to conceive.

* * *

T-minus 254 days.

There is no premonition.

Iris wakes up like any other day and curls into the warm space left behind by Barry, lingering in his empty blanket nest for a long time. At last, her own alarm finally goes off, and she rolls over to turn it off. Getting up, she hears him cooking in the kitchen, but she doesn't join him. She freshens up first, showering alone. She spends a long time brushing her hair and quietly but unmaliciously avoiding him.

Finally, when she is ready, she joins him, idling up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "Morning, babe," she says, one of his hands sliding down to squeeze hers, wrapped around his belly.

They eat blueberry pancakes together, and fashion something of a normal morning out of the whole affair, right up until Iris' phone buzzes with a notification to log her period. She frowns. She thought she turned off the notifications, in light of the terrible little everything between them. Barry asks with arched eyebrows what it is, but she just pockets her phone, a hand-trembling unease building in her chest.

When she cannot wait any longer, she finally gets up and finds that she  _did_ remember to discard all of the pregnancy kits. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she looks herself in the eye, silently asking if she's ready to broach the topic again. She doesn't want to think about how much it will bleed this time, another disappointment.

_Some couples take years. Only half conceive within the first six months._

They're not comforting statistics. And she is desperate not to let the sadness grow, but –

Drawing in a fortifying breath, she steps out of the bathroom and finds Barry sitting on the bed, rumpled hair and worried eyes. "Iris?" he asks softly, standing.

She draws in a deep, slow breath. She could easily go to the store, but the thought of even the minor delay when he is  _right there_ is unbearable. "I need you to do me a favor."

Lighting up a little, happy to help, he says simply, "Anything."

* * *

T-minus 254 days, ten minutes later.

Two pink bars.

Plural.

Four pink bars, actually – she took two different tests, refusing to take one at face value even though her heart leapt immediately when she saw  _two bars_.

She doesn't dangle Barry at all, and his reaction is profoundly relieved. Holding her in his arms, rocking them gently, he croons, "Iris, Iris, Iris." There are tears on his face, and there is such an overwhelming joy in her heart that she's surprised she isn't crying, too. She holds onto him, her rock, her Barry, and aches to believe and be  _happy_.

"We're pregnant," she tells him. A little laugh bubbles up out of her chest. "Barry. We're—"

"I love you," he says fervently, kissing her brow. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Held in his arms, swaying together in their bedroom and bathed in sunny December light, Iris feels like the luckiest woman alive. "I love you," is all she says, kissing him properly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE IMPORTANT PART: Howdy, folks! Approaching 10k, this chapter has reached Goliath proportions. Rather than inflate it to a truly gargantuan 20k, I've decided to cap it and finish the remainder of the pregnancy in a third installment. I know! I wanna hit T-minus 0, too, but right now all I can ask is your patience. In the meantime, let me know what you think, and enjoy!
> 
> FUN FACT: If the formatting looks a little different, it's because I double-space after periods when I'm writing fics, an effect that is usually removed when I upload fics but was not removed this time due to technical errors. For me uploading fics is a two-step process: I copy-paste documents into the ffnet uploader and then copy-paste the new ffnet result to the AO3 uploader. It eliminates the extra space AO3's uploader wants to put after each paragraph. However, by going through ffnet first, the uploader also removes that double-space effect. Since ffnet has been down all day, I wasn't able to upload there. Therefore, I had to manually remove all the spaces after paragraphs, and the double spaces were preserved. Hopefully they won't be a nuissance! Assuming ffnet comes back online, the next chapter will use the same single space format as the first chapter.
> 
> FURTHERMORE: I have tweaked a few things about this story.  
> #1, I upped the rating because Iris drops a couple "fuck"s, and it felt inappropriate to label the fic "G."  
> #2, I made a map of Iris' pregnancy with each week corresponding to a set number of T-minus days as well as calendar dates. I have already adjusted the "October" setting of the preceding chapter to a "December" setting. This won't dramatically alter the story, but I'll comb through the first section and make minor adjustments as needed to keep the story's timeline realistic.  
>   
> BONUS: I have done a truly exhaustive amount of research about pregnancies and discovered more fruit-related baby metaphors than I ever thought humanly possible. The Internet is an inventive and informative place!

T-minus 253 days.

Nothing changes.  _Everything_ changes.

They’re in a daze the first day, keeping the news to themselves not out of conscious decision but simple euphoria.  Iris doesn’t realize that the morning has passed and the afternoon is swiftly following until the sun sets.  It doesn’t matter; they’re _pregnant_.  Sitting in their pajamas on the floor, they eat cheesecake together, and are happy.

It’s today, _day two_ , that the ticking clock resumes.  Without fanfare, the world picks up its stately routine, drifting back to its familiar winter narrative.  If it knows she is pregnant, it gives no sign.  Dawn spills pink light around the curtains, tracing the arch of her duvet-clad shoulders.  Beyond the frosted windows, the temperature hovers around a cool twelve degrees Fahrenheit.  When she finally commits to a shower, it’s steaming-hot.

She dresses warmly, but Barry’s double-layering method is decidedly more noticeable.  Per tradition, he layers up and wears socks around the apartment full-time once the temperatures drop below freezing.  No matter how warm he is, he tends to seek out more heat.  He curls up with his favorite honey-colored blanket for naps and wears beanies more often than not once the cold weather strikes.  Iris doesn’t like cold fingers, but Barry would curl up in a lit fireplace if he found a big enough hearth.

Munching on Corn Flakes, Barry doesn't turn around when she sidles up behind him and hugs him.  Humming, he settles his left hand on her arm and finishes off his bowl.  She rests her cheek on his shoulder, soaking in some of that speedster-warmth for herself.  She almost expects him to be different from the Barry she knows, to have changed overnight, but he still smells like bergamot and firewood, still purrs like a speedster.

Everything has changed.  Nothing has changed.

On the wall calendar, Iris notices a little pencil heart in the previous box labeled _December 3 rd._  There’s no explanation, no _baby-on-the-way_ confections.  It’s just a little heart in Barry’s handwriting, a quiet celebration of the first real milestone.  She presses her smile against his shoulder, aching for a moment for bare skin.  The world is still turning and the world still needs them, but sometimes she just wants to be selfish and keep him for herself.

When he turns and kisses her, it’s the next-best-thing.

* * *

 

 _I_ _ntermission: Barry_.

T-minus 252 days.

4:49 AM. 

Lying flat on his back on the floor with his legs up on the couch, Barry works on a crossword puzzle book.

It’s unacceptably early to make breakfast (for Iris; he’s already plowed through two pre-breakfast “snacks”), but it’s also kind of slow in the city with a blizzard bearing down on them, strangling metahuman activity.  He’d hang out with Cisco at STAR Labs, but Cisco clocks out around three.  Caitlin is a morning person, which means she is never voluntarily up after midnight, and Ralph’s sleep schedule is so mysterious that Barry is afraid to ask.

He’s not bored; he has literally thousands of case files at his fingertips and an entire multiverse of people who could use The Flash’s help.  Deliberately idling, he resists the urge to run the heroic hamster wheel, sticking to his self-imposed eighteen-hour cap.  He only needs ninety-six minutes of sleep each night, eliminating a huge chunk of biologically-mandated down-time.  By designating six hours every day to non-heroic stuff, he still works nearly three times as much as the average Central Citizen, but he doesn’t burn out every day.

He’s four words away from completion when he hears a retching sound.  Grimacing sympathetically, he freeze-frames the world, Flashes to his feet, and zips back into their room.  Slowing down again, he taps on the partially open bathroom door, asking quietly, “Iris?”  She groans, kneeling in front of the toilet.  “Y’okay?”  Another groan.  Slowly pushing the door open, he asks, “Do you want space or…?”

She holds out a hand.  He sits next to her, settling a hand on the small of her back and rubbing slowly.  She takes hold of the front of his Flash tee, eyes closed, still half-asleep.  She lists against him, leaning on his side before another round of nausea kicks in.  Brushing her hair back, he sticks with her.

The Flash might be clocked out, but as Barry, he can still help her, day or night.

* * *

 

T-minus 250 days.

“We should go to Disney World.”

Barry pauses mid-bite of his sandwich, wrapping up second lunch.  Swallowing, he asks, “Like – right now?”

Iris shrugs, sitting on the edge of Winn’s empty desk.  She’s feeling good – strong.  Normal.  _Young_.  “I am _not_ endowed with superspeed, so that is entirely up to you.”

He frowns.  “Is that safe?”  Articulately, he flattens a hand against his own belly.

Iris rolls her eyes, pushing off from the desk and striding over to him, draping her arms around his neck.  “I trust the Speed Force.”

He hums doubtfully, but he slides his arms around her hips.  “Mm.  You really wanna go right now?”

She smiles.  “We’re young and irresponsible.”

“Mm.”  He shakes his head a little, but there’s a smile on his face.  Then, brightening, he stands and says, “Hold on.”  Zipping off, he reappears seconds later with Cisco.

Cisco puts a hand to his head and says, “Barry, _why_.”

“I need a favor.”

“After that you owe _me_ a favor,” Cisco grunts, still holding his head.  “What?”

“You can Vibe to specific locations,” Barry says.

Cisco waves a hand.  “Yes, I know this.”

“So.  Could you …”  He looks at Iris.  Lifting his eyebrows expectantly, he waits.

She grins.  “How do you feel about Disney World?” she asks Cisco.

Twenty minutes later finds the four of them – because there was no-way, no-how Cisco _wasn’t_ gonna bring his B-F-F-X-T ( _best-friend-forever-times-ten_ ) Cindy with him – in the Magic Kingdom.

It is, hands down, one of Iris’ best ideas.

As they’re waiting for the fireworks that night, there is all the time in the world to tell Cisco and Cindy about the pregnancy, but neither she nor Barry break the news.  _Not yet_ , seems to linger in the air between them, his chin hooked over her shoulder as he holds her.  With his arms around her waist, his hands settle naturally on her belly. 

She thinks about bringing a baby, _their_ baby, to this magical place, and is grateful that the darkness hides the tears in her eyes.  She isn’t sure she could explain them to Cisco or Cindy without giving herself away.  A bubble of hopefulness in her chest prevents speech.

 _Not yet_.

* * *

 

T-minus 247 days.

Prancing around Disney like kids half their age, it almost feels like the happy little secret isn’t real. 

It feels like pregnancy is a dream conjured up by the universe to make the cold winter nights a little less lonely, an illusion to take the bite out of disappointment.  At the park, it doesn't matter that it might not be real, that they might be one of all too many false positives.  She's too happy to care, dining on mouse-eared ice cream under a balmy Floridian sun with her husband of nearly three years. 

Once they return to the breathless cold of Central City, her hopefulness and anxiety skyrocket.  She can't sleep, shifting positions so many times she finally kicks _Barry_ out of bed.  (Literally.  He hits the floor.  She apologizes at least five times.) He takes the interruption in stride, and though the spring is out of his step from just shy of half an hour of sleep, he still smiles and makes coffee.

Iris’ gaze inexorably finds the calendar, fixing first on the little pencil heart on the third and then the current date.  December 10th.

One week down. 

 _Forty-two days_ complete.

As Barry can cheerfully and reliably point out, the pregnancy-test trigger-hormone hCG ( _human chorionic gonadotropin_ ; yes, she Googled it, and no, she can’t pronounce it) is only produced after implantation, a phenomenon that takes place about two weeks after conception.  It takes another two weeks for hCG levels to build to reliably detectible levels. An eager parent-to-be might take a pregnancy test as soon as a week after conception.  Feeling less than robustly optimistic, Iris waited a week after her expected cycle, prompted by the omnipresent app’s reminder to log her period!

By the time they decide to make the announcement to Dad, Cecile, Wally, and a handful of other need-to-know friends, she hasn’t been pregnant for a week.

She is _six weeks_ pregnant.

Their reaction is Iris’ favorite five-syllable word:

 _Con-gra-tu-la-tions!_

(It’s the most gratifying response she’s ever gotten to an announcement, and she once won a writing contest in college that came with a $500 cash prize.)

* * *

 

T-minus 246 days.

Humans inherited the contrarian impulse to name a frozen wasteland “Greenland” from the universe's idea of a joke, an affliction more commonly known as “morning” sickness.

Actually, humans named that, too.

Staring down at her laptop, well into the workday and determinedly resisting the urge to throw up, Iris concludes that people are garbage.

* * *

 

T-minus 245 days.

Barry, who brings her a heating pad and leaves her alone for four glorious hours, is less garbage than most people.

* * *

 

T-minus 244 days.

Barry, who can drink all the caffeine in the world and needs less than two hours of sleep a night, is more garbage than most people.

At least his shirts are soft, Iris reflects charitably, face-planted on the couch in one of them.

* * *

 

T-minus 243 days.

A confident man walks into a conversation with “Did you know that research shows morning sickness can actually be beneficial for both Mom and baby?”

Sitting propped up against the headboard with her reading glasses on, Iris levels the flattest look in her repertoire at Barry.  “Really.”

Rocking back on his heels, he clasps his hands together and says simply, “I will take a walk, now.”

“Much better.”

* * *

 

T-minus 242 days.

The average pregnancy is 280 days long.

According to Barry’s infinite supply of nerd facts, a manned mission to Mars could be completed in as few as 220 days.

Ergo: had Iris boarded the hypothetical _GOK 1_ the exact moment she submitted her final answer of _Yes I Want a Baby_ , she would still have almost two months of her pregnancy left when she finally landed. 

Pros: she’d get to shatter some fantastic records, including laying claim to “First Person on Mars” and “First Pregnant Woman on Mars;” transmission time between the two planets is about twenty minutes each way, so she’d have nineteen and a half minutes to compose her historic first words, as well as plenty of time to let out an emphatic and un-air-able “fuck yeah!”; she’d be the first person in human history to ever have an entire _planet_ to themselves (until her partners inevitably stepped out of the capsule, doubtless relieved to not have to share space with a heavily pregnant woman anymore); and her baby bump would be almost forty percent lighter, making life in general decidedly easier.

Cons: her Martian baby would be extremely hard to birth, assuming it survived the more-than-lethal dose of radiation on the trip out and the steep G-forces on the launch itself.  Also, she would have to pee into a vacuum.  No thank you. 

There’s also the disconcerting prospect that once you’re in, you’re in.  There is no “return to sender” option on Mars.  It’s a one-way trip.

Then again, so is a successful pregnancy.

Sighing, Iris shifts positions on the couch, cuddling the giant stuffed Porg that Cisco won in a Target raffle (only took 37 tries; according to him it’s not _cheating,_ it’s _ingenious_ to use breaches to scout 37 different locations).

She’s only been pregnant for twelve – _forty-seven_ – days, but in that little corner of her mind she doesn’t tell Barry about, she kind of wants to bail.  She’s reaching for the spacecraft’s nonexistent “Please Exit Here” lever, anxious to back out before she’s too far along.  The vacuum of space may suck, but at least it’s not an entire human being dependent on her for everything.  She can’t hurt the vacuum of space’s feelings; she certainly can’t be a bad parent to it, either.  The number of ways she can fail as a parent is enormous, and there is no surefire strategy for success.

_This is what you wanted._

Burying her face against the Porg’s back, she turns the mental lights off for a time and drifts in space.

* * *

 

T-minus 241 days.

There’s still no baby bump. 

Why isn’t there a bump?  _Should_ there be a bump? 

Iris stares at her flat belly for a long time, trying to persuade herself that it’s real, that there’s a baby, her baby, _their_ baby, but –

Still.  No.  Bump.

With a disgruntled sound, she tugs on her regular, post-workout shirt and tries to draw comfort in the fact that she can still wear belly-revealing tees at the gym without drawing unwanted attention.  _God_ , she kind of wants it to be there already.

_Maybe there won’t be one.  Maybe it was a false positive._

Google tells her that seven weeks is optimistically early to show, but she’s pregnant and no stranger on the street would know, _she_ wouldn’t know if it weren’t for the test, and it _grates_.  There’s a discontinuity between her thoughts and the test that promised her there is a baby.  She hates that it could all be a wistful idea, a _false positive_ in the truest sense of the words.  She doesn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up only to crush them down.  She doesn’t want to be _wrong_ , to have to tell them all that it was a lie, that it didn’t happen – or, worse, that it ended too soon.

Ten to twenty percent of all pregnancies end in spontaneous abortion.

She can picture it all too vividly, one-in-five little hearts being erased from their calendars.  It brings a lump to her throat to think about how, consciously or unconsciously, even Barry with a big smile and nothing but verbal optimism used something as impermanent as _pencil_ to mark the date.

She skips a post-workout smoothie with Linda, which is stupid, because now in addition to being nauseous and anxious and _sad_ , she’s also hangry, but she doesn’t care.  She makes her way home, but home is too empty with Barry away.  Dropping off her workout bag, she slings her satchel over her shoulders instead and heads back out into the cold.

She doesn’t have a destination in mind, but her feet take her to the precinct.  When the elevator doors open, she finds her dad first.  She could head up to the forensics’ lab – there’s a good chance that Barry’s still there, even this late in the day – but she beelines for her dad’s desk.  “Hey, baby girl,” he says, standing and holding out his arms.

Folding herself into them, she inhales deeply, grounding herself in the real, and exhales slowly.

Somehow, it makes her feel better, safer, more real.

* * *

 

T-minus 237 days.

It’s starting to feel routine.  The soreness, the crankiness, the “I miss you so much; please come back” calling card of nausea and naps.  Barry is pretty chill about the whole affair, which helps.  He leaves her alone and is gratifyingly pleased when she finally gets over another robust round of “I hate every man and my husband especially” hormones.  She cuddles the Porg plush more than said husband, but he doesn’t complain.  (Neither does Cisco – good man.  She’s already categorized Cisco as less garbage than most.)

Then comes the first prenatal visit and oh, Mama, is she a bundle of nerves.  Excited nerves.  She swears by it, even though there’s definitely the anxious little voice screaming into the world’s tiniest bullhorn that it was all a lie and they are in for the world’s biggest disappointment.  Well.  Probably not the world’s _biggest_.  The world’s biggest disappointment was when the dinosaurs disappeared.

She’s been dreaming about dinosaurs a lot lately.  Baby dinosaurs, following her like she’s their Mama.  She blames them on Barry and his dragon-baby comments.  Clearly, they’ve rooted deeper in her subconscious than she knew, and if he mentions _Khaleesi_ at all in earshot, she _will_ make him sleep on the couch.

She has not told him about the dinosaur dreams, because he _will_ send her seven different very helpful articles talking about pregnancy and the Miracle of Creation or something, featuring anecdotes from Mamas-to-be with weird pregnancy dreams.  She gets it.  She _is_ the metaphor.  All dreams are metaphors.  Life is a metaphor. 

Right now, the metaphor is shaped like a hedgehog curled in on itself, quietly and continuously screaming.

Luckily, Barry does not make blueberry pancakes on the morning of “It’s Official ( _Hopefully_ )” which is good, because if she even catches a whiff of blueberries she _will_ throw up.  It’s a whole new olfactory experience, being pregnant.  Her sense of smell soars.  Why?  Because pregnant people need to be able to _smell_ deeply. 

At least aching breasts make _sense_.

Anxiously staring at the clock, _only two more hours, only one more hour_ , Iris is certain that she has never simultaneously dreaded and awaited an OB-GYN appointment more than now. 

Forty-five minutes out, she finally asks, “Is it too early?”

Two minutes later, they’re sitting in the waiting room, Barry bouncing a leg as he sits next to her.  When Iris wraps up the paperwork, she takes one of his hands in hers and squeezes it, too nervous to rally a reassuring speech.

_Today’s the day._

He’s letting her win a thumb war when a nurse finally calls her back. 

Being a dad-to-be is the easiest job in the world, she grumbles silently, running the full gamut of “First Prenatal Screening, Yay!” tests.

* * *

 

_Intermission: Barry._

T-minus 237 days.

Waiting in the waiting room is officially Barry’s least favorite activity on Planet Earth, and he was once turned into a kinetic porcupine with over 400 metal quills.

* * *

 

T-minus 237 days, resumed.

Prenatal ultrasounds: paying a medical professional to rub one’s abdomen with a rubber “wand” and a whole lot of warm blue gel.

Sponsored by “hang on, I have to pee again.”

At least it’s not painful, Iris muses, even though she’s so anxious she feels like she might throw up again. 

Meanwhile, with a level of concentration endowed to world chess champions in the final round, Barry leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, gaze glued to the black-and-white screen, waiting.  Iris watches him for a time, but he doesn’t blink or look away from the screen.

After a long moment, it clicks: he’s _Speeding_.  She taps his shoulder because she wants him _here_ , not _there_.  A tiny blue spark jumps between them.  If either doctor or assistant notices, they don’t comment, because Barry promptly startles so violently he tips out of his chair.  For the first time in a week, Iris laughs, a nice big belly laugh that takes the edge off. 

Bright red, Barry rights himself with several apologies, looking fully prepared to draw his shirt over his face.  As a kid, he did it fairly often.  It never mattered that he looked even sillier doing it than he did staring down at his shoes, flushed with embarrassment.  Hiding his face was his go-to move if he was annoyed or embarrassed.  He grew out of it, but he still tugs at his collar a little.  She pulls on his sleeve until he gives her his hand instead.

He is _wired_ , strung tighter than steel.  She’s surprised he hasn’t started vibrating in his chair or phased through the floor.  It occurs to her that she might have to play off the fact that _The Flash_ is her husband if he can’t keep his cool, but he projects outward calm with frankly admirable conviction.  She lifts her eyebrows a little.  _You good?_   He nods, squeezing her hand reassuringly, and doesn’t relax at all.

Without fuss, they’re back to the grainy black-and-white screen.  She feels Barry fidgeting next to her, silently reassuring her that he’s still in real-time, but she doesn’t look at him, unable to look away from the screen.

That – _that_ is not a baby.

That’s _two_ babies.

There are a lot of metaphors about life – gorgeous metaphors, succinct and sweet and euphoric metaphors, all of which have a time and place.  They can encapsulate feelings that she can’t articulate in her own words.  She’ll reflect on this moment at some distant temporal point with an eloquent remark about the “Miracle of Creation" and the overwhelming sense of _rightness_.  She’ll tell this story with the same smile that she does when she talks about Barry’s proposal.  She’ll love every second of revisiting this moment.  This very moment, when her mind goes quiet, and warmth floods her chest.

But the thing that stands out to her in the exact present is Barry’s soft strangled sound, both breathless and beyond speech, and the way he settles his elbow on the side of the bed and brings her hand to his lips, holding it there for a little eternity, like he’s searching for a phrase stronger than _I love you_.

If he ever finds the verbal equivalent, he never shares it, but she understands him perfectly in that moment of silence, that moment of pure unaltered _joy_ , before her favorite five-syllable word finally fills the room:

_Con-gra-tu-la-tions._

* * *

 

T-minus 237 days, later that night.

They barely have to announce it formally before Cisco admits that he had a cake ordered (or twelve; hey, he knows his audience, and in the _family_ there are two speedsters).

Each says “Congrats, you’re PREGNANT!”  In true Cisco fashion, they’re all intentionally misspelled.

“They thought I was kidding,” Cisco remarks, amused, as he holds up a cake with the affectionate misspelling of “Gregnant.”  “Bless their hearts.  I’m really proud of this one,” he adds, pointing a fork at “Pregante.”  “Gonna eat any of them?” he asks Barry, who is currently taking pictures of them on his phone.  He shakes his head distractedly, but he doesn’t make it past “Pregananant,” laughing until he cries.

Iris indulges in the thinnest slivers of cake Cisco can carve out.  (“I’m not trying to ruin your pregnancy diet, I promise.”  “Please do.”)  Her dad, Cecile, and Joanie show up in a little under half an hour, and Wally Flashes into view a mere six minutes after them.

“Sorry, I got caught up off-wor—”  He pauses, inhales deeply, and demands, “Is that cake?”

“Kinetic sand, actually,” Barry deadpans, popping a forkful into his mouth.

Iris rolls her eyes and nudges him.  She’s sitting on the same chair, which amounts to sitting three-quarters in his lap and occasionally stealing his fork.  The warm pregnancy glow has never felt more real.  Her magnanimity even extends to not envying his ability to pack away fully six of the twelve cakes without loss of enthusiasm, settling progressively farther onto his lap until he is fully holding her, plate of cake forgotten.  He’s also purring, which reminds her one of those massaging chairs, which makes her laugh.

God, she has never been so _happy_.

They wait until the whole family is present before finally letting them see the ultrasound picture, complete with not one but _two_ clearly discernible babies.

There’s a ten-syllable word that sums up their reactions perfectly:

_!!!!!!!!!!_

* * *

 

T-minus 233 days.

It’s Christmas Eve before Iris realizes she hasn’t bought Barry a Christmas present.

Between mood swings (yay), persistent morning sickness ( _double_ yay), and Cross-Fit ( _has it literally ever been easier to want to be a quitter?_ ), among other pregnancy joys, she’s been a little preoccupied.  Watching her diet and remembering to take her eclectic assortment of prenatal vitamins are also not insubstantial time-sucks.  Her two emotions have been restricted to a) hangry and b) naps, and said naps are filled with the _weirdest_ dreams she has ever had, bar none.

It doesn’t help that eggnog is strictly off the table, hot chocolate exists only in moderation, and the _smell_ of gingerbread or peppermint instantly sets off her gag reflex.  To his credit, Barry keeps all of the above out of the apartment and compensates with several hundred paper snowflakes to keep things “fun” and “festive.”  He also lets her cuddle him while he’s wearing his stupidly comfortable Christmas sweaters, which greatly improves his “how garbage is my husband” score.

Still: in spite of it all, she really does love her garbage husband, even if he can still drink eighteen glasses of coffee and promptly die of a heart attack, if he wants to, without risking harm to their future children.  God.  The American dream.

He’s napping on the couch, because he fully intends to stay up all night being Speedster Santa, a venture he’s kept up with Wally for three years, now.  It gives her a window to head out without drawing his attention – once he clocks out, he’s _out_ , awakening only for minor disasters, like being forcibly shunted out of bed – and she calls up Joanie because, hey, sister time.

Plus, Joanie is extremely easy to be around, a sounding board and an equally engaging conversationalist.  Iris finds herself enjoying their outing a lot more than she expects to.  Joanie wears a reindeer headband and Iris finds a Santa hat because it’s Christmas, it’s _festive_.  In the spirit of going wherever the below-freezing wind takes them, they end up at a home-goods store with a truly ungodly amount of foam, and who needs _foam_ , but it makes her laugh when Joanie heaves a massive roll clear over her head, declaring solemnly, “I am the Foam Queen.”

(Joanie is a June baby, but their adventure is not forgotten when she unwraps Iris’ birthday gift and cackles over the exact same roll of foam, endowed to “The Foam Queen.”)

In the end, she gets Barry a sundial watch, because it’s cool to look at and hard to read, and he loves that kind of stuff.  Plus, he wouldn’t be on time even if she somehow persuaded _the sun_ to turn back a few hours, and she loves that about him.  It’s just part of him.  He’s the fastest man alive, and he’s always late.  Somehow, the cosmic oxymoron suits him.

* * *

 

T-minus 232 days.

Barry gets her a giant plush Porg.

If it demotes him to the second best snuggle buddy in Iris’ life, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with it.  It’s the heart of their happy marriage.  They’re both nerds, and they both enjoy a good old-fashioned _Star Wars_ plushie.  (Legally obtained on Earth-2, he cheerfully explains: having a speedster friend from another universe has its serious perks.)

Cuddled up to him on the couch later that night at her dad’s place, she assures him with a kiss under the chin that he still holds the number one place in her heart.  And, yes, his snuggles _are_ better.  But don’t let it get to his head.

He’s already the best husband there ever was.

* * *

 

T-minus 230 days.

Turns out the “Miracle of Creation” is a lot like having a really bad cold.

She’s congested and headachy and throwing up so often she calls off work.  Barry stays with her, bringing her whatever comforts they think might help.  At some point between naps she hears him on the phone with her dad, seeking reassurance and solutions.  She feels a little bad at pushing him away earlier that morning because his cologne set her off, why does literally _everything_ set her off, but once he showers to dull it to a tolerably faint whiff, she lets him hold her for a while on the couch while they watch the blandest TV they can find because even laughing makes her want to throw up.

She falls asleep with her face pressed against his belly and his hand stroking her shoulder while he keeps the Speed-purrs to an absolute minimum because he’s trying not to set her off.  Even his conscientiousness can’t stop the groan-inducing need to pee every forty minutes.

Sometimes, the only answer is simply _suffer_ , and it’s a little more bearable with him there, so he stays.

* * *

 

T-minus 228 days.

A light at the end of the tunnel.  _A break_.  Hallelujah.

Work resumes, life resumes, her sense of control _resumes_ – and yet, when Iris looks down and sees the slightest bump one morning, barely noticeable with a loose shirt but still undeniably _there_ , she feels giddy.  Elated.  Beyond elated.  Euphoric.

It’s so lovely, lovely in a way that pizza-belly has never been, lovely in the casual elegance of knowing that she is well and truly _pregnant_.

She’s actually pregnant.  Maybe it is a miracle.

* * *

 

T-minus 226 days.

The last day of the year marks the beginning of the tenth week of her pregnancy.

Iris knows it because that little pencil heart is still there, marking the fifth week, four weeks ago, now.  Just seeing it still makes her catch her breath, a hand on her belly and a terrible statistic looming large.

_One-in-five._

She dares to hope their odds are a sobering but less halting one-in-ten, that their youth and general good health will prevent any catastrophes, but it’s out of her hands.  She can no sooner will the pregnancy to last than she can guarantee it in the first place.  Sometimes, there is a place for chance, and it holds a terrifying amount of sway in the first trimester.

Two more weeks, she consoles herself.  Fourteen more days, and their odds improve substantially.  Eighty percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester; only twenty percent happen in the latter part of the pregnancy.  It’s not the world’s most comforting statistic, but it does mean they’re almost out of the woods once she ticks _week twelve_ off the calendar.

Aching for the new year, aching for mid-January, she still finds a little smile when Barry wraps his arms around her from behind, pressing a friendly kiss to her cheek and resting his hands on top of hers.

“Y’okay?”

Instead of responding, she turns in his arms and kisses him, because she’s finally feeling like herself and she really, really doesn’t want to sour it with hopefully fruitless fears.

“Mm-hm.”

* * *

 

T-minus 220 days.

Iris is at work, reading through an article, when her phone buzzes for the first time in hours. 

It’s 2:18 PM.  Outside, it’s a bone-chilling 9 degrees Fahrenheit.  She’s feeling pretty good, all things considered: less nauseous, more human, a little unfocused but zealous enough to try and work.  It’s good to stay busy.  It keeps her from stressing the pregnancy.  Stress is bad, for her and the babies.  Stress must be avoided.

Her phone buzzes again.  She checks it.

Cisco: _Are you at work?_

Iris frowns.  _What’s wrong?_

In response, Vibe – _Vibe_ – appears, breach opening right there in the center of the hub.  The noise in the room escalates as people reel, but he doesn’t pause to reassure them.

She wants to sink to the floor.  She wants to curl up and avoid the buzzing phone which was silent for so many hours, silent again.  She wants to pretend she didn’t see the message, that she didn’t respond.

Instead, she stands, not yet impeded by a pregnant belly too subtle for strangers to pinpoint it, and steps through another breach with him.

She has no idea what to expect.  In her mind, she sees the Cortex covered in blood, shivers as a pallor like death settles over the place, hunches inward as the deep wrongness of something terrible chills her blood.  They cross the universes, and she braces for impact.

She actually closes her eyes, and then she opens them, and there is no blood, no deathly pallor.  All is quiet.  It’s too quiet, she thinks immediately and has to close her eyes again the instant it sinks in.

“We lost contact two hours ago,” Cisco says quietly.

Rage bursts in her chest.  It’s so sharp it splinters her lungs, preventing speech.  It aches in her, burns in her.  At last, with false composure, she demands, “Why did you wait?” 

Cisco doesn’t respond.  She doesn’t need him to.  She knows why he waited.  They lose contact with Barry one out of every four missions.  As a rule, she’s only roped in if a) she’s already present or b) he’s been gone for too long.  The lulls can be seconds long, known only because they cut off speech, or a few minutes.

Anything over ten minutes is cause for concern.  By an hour, it’s downright alarm.

She feels dizzy, suddenly, and takes a seat at the console because she will not fall, she will not let the news shatter her.  “Where was he?” she asks at last, wrestling with the tightness in her throat, straining for composure.  She has to be composed.  They didn’t just call her in because she’s Barry’s wife; they called her in because she’s their _leader_.

“Right here,” Cisco says, and there is something dark and terrible building in her chest, a premonition flexing its claws, aching to become real.  “Wally’s been scouting the area for hours, but…”  He trails off.  He still has the goggles on, arms folded across his chest.  The anxiety is clear.  _He could be halfway around the multiverse by now._

“What happened?” she asks, surprised at how cool her own voice sounds.  It barely belongs to her.  Nothing seems to belong to her.  When she rises from the chair, her body feels mechanical, like it’s someone else’s.

“Off-world metahuman ping,” Cisco explains softly.  “We didn’t want to go in blind, but – something was moving _fast_ , setting off distress signals planetwide.  We were gonna wait until we could find out more, but we couldn’t … plan.”  He says the last with a little grimace.  “We were just going to check it out.  Nobody was going after any metas.  Nobody,” he insists fiercely.

Then, sighing, he finishes, “It went as planned – Wally stayed here to hold down the fort, I scoped out one potential target area but came up dry, and Barry scoped out another.  We were gonna meet in the middle.  I don’t – I don’t know what happened.  I found the middle, but Barry wasn’t there.”  His voice is thin, strangled.  “I promise you, Iris, we’re gonna get him back, but it felt – wrong, to not tell you any longer.  I’m sorry.”

Iris breathes shallowly.  She composes herself, closing her eyes, aching for a sixth sense, _something_ to –

It clicks.  “Speed Force,” she says.

Cisco frowns, not understanding.  “What?”

“I can – Speed Force,” she repeats like it’s obvious, like all of those ten thousand little gestures might have imprinted something more serious on her soul than an _impression_ , an actual _lifeline_.  “Get Wally.”

Still frowning, Cisco presses a button on his sleeve.  _Flash_ , and her breath catches, but it’s just Wally.  She hates the disappointment that floods her.  _Focus_.  Heart-pounding hopefulness surges through her, and she says with only a little shakiness in her voice, “Cisco, you can breach us to the Speed Force, right?”

Cisco removes his goggles, staring at her.  “No.  No, Iris, you’re—”

“You’re not going to find him,” she says shortly, sharply, releasing the blade of a guillotine.  He flinches.  Good.  He needs to understand that there are ten thousand, thousand, thousand universes out there, and Barry could be on – any one of them.  There is only one constant throughout it all, one unreachable place that might be able to reach him.  Pushing back from the console, she stands.

Wally hasn’t found him yet.  The world-hopping perpetrators are moving fast.  It’s been two hours.

There is no time for this.

“Breach us to the Speed Force,” she says forcefully.  “You’ll stay anchored to Earth.  Wally and I will find him.  We’ll stay tethered to you.”

“You sure you can find him?” Wally asks seriously.

“Iris, you could _lose_ —”

She holds up a hand.  “My body,” she says at last, “my rules.”

Cisco exhales.  He puts the goggles back on.  He nods once brusquely.  Then he says, “It’s easier in the Speed cannon lab.”

Wally doesn’t wait for further prompting, Flashing them into the room.  There’s a little electric hum of fear coursing through her, knowing that she’s endangering _everything_ , but – _this is about Barry_.

And there is nothing she won’t do for Barry.  Absolutely nothing.

She clips the tether onto her wrist, securing it tightly.  Cisco locks the remaining cuff on his own wrist.  It’s a signal, a beacon in the darkness.  A North Star in a starless place.  As long as she doesn’t lose it, she’ll always be able to find home.  Wally’s suit is already tethered to him with the same tech; it’s in the emblem. 

Sobered, Cisco regards them for a long moment.  “Godspeed,” he says quietly, throwing open a breach.  Wally takes her hand, and together, they step through the breach into the void.

A long moment passes between them.  There is no storm, no sea, no land at all.  There is only darkness.  It is the world before creation, the universe before light.  Wally squeezes her hand reassuringly.  The cuff lights up, and when she walks forward, it leaves a haze behind her, centralizing around the original point like a slow-moving comet.

Good to go.  She doesn’t need to exhale, but it brings her stability to perform the act, to simply _breathe_ in a space where she doesn’t even technically have a body.  As long as she’s tethered back to Earth, she does.  “All right,” she says, and Wally squeezes her hand, letting it go slowly.  He doesn’t disappear, but he goes dark, becoming nearly opaque.  It is only the reflection from her own tether that keeps him in view.

“Tell me where to go,” he says simply.

She inhales and exhales again.  She closes her eyes, even though it doesn’t change the view much.

It is grand and dark and still in this cosmic place of nothing.  It is awesome.  It is _alive_.

It is to the darkness that she addresses: “Show me.”

She opens her eyes, and in the distance, she sees a tall figure materialize, regarding her with familiar white eyes.  Despite the solemn garb, the future Barry – the true hero Barry, the one who even in death committed to _helping_ people – is visible underneath the black mask.  For an instant, she feels pain, crushing, suffocating pain, because no.  No, no, no.  _No_.

Then, slowly, the Black Flash saunters forward.  Wally doesn’t move.  He can’t see the Black Flash.  Not yet.  She looks the Black Flash head-on.  At last, It is near enough that she has to look _up_.  It is then, and only then, that Wally tenses, sensing the cold.  The Black Flash extends a bony, gnarled hand towards her.  Without hesitation, she takes it.

A lifetime passes between them as It pulls her forward, turning away, white eyes fixing on a distant point she cannot see.  She feels a tug behind her, and shakes her head, assuring, “It’s okay.”  Wally lets go.  The tether leaves a comet trail behind her.  With every step that Death leads her along, she feels the finality, like she may never come back to Earth, like she will disappear into the darkness altogether, like she never-was.

Then, all at once, the Black Flash stills in one place, and looks at her expectantly.  She looks back at It, at Barry’s eyes, ten thousand, thousand, thousand centuries old and still – faintly warm, affectionate even now.  He once told her it would take trillions of years for the last stars to burn out.  She suspects it is then and only then that that warmth will disappear from the Black Flash’s glowing white eyes.  The Speed Force’s love is deep.  It amplifies what exists into something so pure it cannot inhabit the multiverse.  It must stay removed.

It does not accompany her as she takes a single step forward without It. Suddenly there is grass bending beneath her feet.  She walks steadily forward even though the landscape does not appear at once, slowly coming into view.  At last, she is moving under a moonless sky, ink-black but full of stars, following the path of a long red streak vanishing into the distance.  She walks steadily, unerringly, along the length of that slowly-fading tail, a red-orange-yellow light that doesn’t diverge from its path.  It’s not hard to discern what it is.

 _Lightning trail_.

One only a speedster could leave.  She follows it, for hours, it seems, but exhaustion doesn’t overtake her.  She’s living in Speed-time, now.  She can follow it forever, and her feet won’t ache, and her breath won’t change, and her body will not fail her.  This is what it is meant to do, she thinks; the Earth is merely a rigid medium that refuses to cooperate.

A city materializes in the distance, and it reminds her of Central City, but inverted, darkness where buildings should be, buildings where darkness belongs.  Moving at the leisurely, eternal pace, she doesn’t have any problem navigating the strange space, drawing no attention, stirring no alarms.  She follows the lightning trail even as it fades, follows it even after it has become so faint she can barely make it out.

She follows it until finally, she finds him.

Frozen in time, he is sitting on the floor, back to a wall, with a neon blue chain around his neck.  Fire burns red in his eyes, but he doesn’t look at her: his gaze is fixed on the open doorway where a creature best left in nightmares resides, tall and chaotically built, long protruding teeth, wickedly curled claws, slathering black maw, and hungry yellow-lightning eyes.

She doesn’t need to ask what it is to know, intuitively, that it hunts speedsters.  Its gaze slides to her, and she feels heart-pounding terror, but it moves with enormous slowness towards her, trapped in ice.  Forcing herself even a step farther into the room is nearly impossible with the creature watching her, inexorably attracted to her even though there is no way it can see her, not yet, not at this speed.  She takes another step.  Barry is maybe four steps away.  The creature is less than ten.  Faster now.  Faster.  Faster.

She doesn’t know how to unlock the chain, but she doesn’t need to: she touches it, and it drops away, sliced clean in half.  He finally notices her, moving glacially, head tilting towards her, just beginning to register another presence.  Eight steps away.  She tugs his arm, and he rises effortlessly.  Taking his hand, she runs, and the nightmare creature is five steps away from them when they phase clean through a wall.

Urgency presses her to move faster, faster, retracing the fading comet trail through the strange, nightmare city.  She doesn’t stroll; she _runs_ , even at this extraordinary pace, world blurring around her completely until there is no world, and it is the void once more.

The Black Flash appears, and she slows down, and suddenly Barry’s hand squeezes hers, hard, and he says in dazed disbelief, “What are you—?”

Then the nightmare creature is back, letting out the single worst sound Iris has ever heard, bones cracking, hot pursuit.  She wants to run, but she’s not fast, nowhere near fast enough, and the creature would have overtaken Barry, too.  It’s loping towards them – she can hear it, doesn’t dare turn to see how close it is – when the Black Flash suddenly materializes behind them.  The nightmare creature runs right into its waiting claws.  It is dead instantaneously, disappearing in a flash of red sparks, like embers.

She waits for the Black Flash to treat them the same way, banishing them into less than nothingness, but it simply moves on.  At some indeterminate point, its steps, soft as bare feet on sand, simply vanish.

She dares to take a step forward.  Barry doesn’t follow immediately, taking a knee, breathing hard.  Almost asthmatically hard, like he’s run a marathon and some, eyes shut, jaw dropped.  “Hey,” she says softly, and it is the easiest thing in the world to draw his arm over her shoulders, to get him back on his feet.  She follows the white trail of light across that long, endless darkness, half-guiding, half-carrying him.

Then, all at once, Wally becomes visible, still standing near the tether.  “Iris,” he shouts, jogging forward and getting underneath Barry’s free arm.  Together, they retrace their steps to that single brilliant point of light.  Upon it, Iris lets go of Barry to press the cuff.  At the same time, Wally presses his emblem.

They reappear in the Speed cannon room.  The return trip is enough to jostle Wally’s grip on Barry; he hits the floor hard, completely limp.  “Hey!” Cisco crows, relieved and anxious in equal parts.  He snaps the breach shut and surges forward, gripping Iris’ arms and asking worriedly, “You okay?”  Wally has already Flashed forward and rearranged Barry onto his back, and Iris blinks at him because – she didn’t see it.

There’s something like disappointment curling in her stomach, that the finite powers were so – _finite_ , but she can’t focus on it, can’t think about it, not with an unresponsive Barry and a nightmare still breathing down her neck, its cry like breaking bones.  “I think he’s okay,” Wally says, two fingers against Barry's neck, taking his pulse.  Cisco’s frame visibly relaxes.  “It’s just slow – picking up steam—”  Barry lunges upright, fisting Wally’s collar, and Wally grabs his shoulders, locking them in a parody of an embrace.  “Hey, hey, you're on Earth-1, it’s okay.”

He stares at Wally, dazed, eyes a little bloodshot, and slowly looks around.  His gaze fixes on Iris.  He Flashes to his feet and hits the floor a second later.  Would hit the floor – Wally catches him under the arms this time.  “Y’ever run a marathon?” he grunts, supporting Barry’s weight in real-time, no Speed Force.  “Lotta runners pass out after stopping.  Wait for it.”  He tightens his grip when Barry tenses, eyes flying open.  Calmly, Wally asserts, “You’re good.  Take a breath.”

“Iris,” he says, voice little more than a rasp, and she finally surges forward.  “You – you’re okay.”  His eyes are glassy; the band around his neck has bruised to an ugly black already.  It’ll be gone before sunset.  He slumps in Wally’s arms, feet scraping the floor as he tries to plant them underneath himself firmly.  Rather than helping him up, Wally lowers him back to the floor.  “Cisco,” he says suddenly, anxiously.

“Right here,” Cisco pipes in, reaching forward to clasp his shoulder.  “Hey, buddy.  It’s okay.  Don’t move too fast.”

Barry groans, reaching up to hold his head with a hand.  “It was … feeding, on my Speed,” he says, eyes squinting shut.  “I don’t know where we were.  Some kinda mirror universe, maybe.  Everything was backwards.  Light where dark s’posed to…”  He exhales, abandoning the narrative to ask, “What happened?”

“The Speed Force,” Iris muses.  She feels – good.  Whole.  At peace.  “I think it …” _gave me Speed_.  It feels like a dream.  All of it.  She looks at the three of them and expects them to dissolve suddenly, to wake up cuddling the Porg plushy on the couch, nauseatingly pregnant once more.  She pinches her arm lightly, but nothing changes.  As the seconds tick by uninterrupted, she smells the faint burn of Speed Force on them, and knows that it’s no dream.

 _Now_ there’s a tremble building in her hands, residual panic and shock wracking her, but she holds it together, Team Leader.  She holds it together long enough to get Barry back on his feet, to fill Cisco and Wally in to the best of her ability, to reestablish order and confirm that there is no nightmare Speed-feeding monster coming after them.  She’s really starting to feel the strain by the time Cisco finally breaches them back to Barry and her apartment because it’s nine-thirty at night and where did the perfect day _go_? 

 _To the Speed Force_ , she muses, wondering about those hours wandering, wandering, wandering down a seemingly endless plain.

She’s ravenous and nauseous at the same time, a combination not helped by the anxiety associated with Barry’s borderline catatonia.  He’s lying on his back on the couch with one arm draped over his head like it’s hurting him, chest rising and falling slowly.  He’s not asleep, making soft affirmative and negative noises to questions, but he doesn’t lift his head or provide actual answers.  He really, really needs to eat – he’s sweating through his suit and ghostly pale – but he’s not moving any time soon and she doesn’t have the strength to force it.

 _She_ doesn’t, so she calls for reinforcements.  Dad and Cecile are there in about fifteen minutes. 

Iris debriefs them at the door, fatigue pressing down on her.  She’s still hungry, but she’s more tired than that – much, much more tired, she thinks, stifling a yawn – and so she beelines for the bedroom instead of the kitchen.  Cecile gets her comfortable and brings her crackers and water.  She downs both in less time than it takes Dad to strongarm Barry into sitting up.

Their grumbling conversation filters across the space.  Barry is actually whining – “Joe, come on, don’t – lea’me alone.” – which is a testament to exactly how nonexistent his reserves are.  She doesn’t know how the argument ends; the sleeve of crackers is gone, and with it her last urge to stay even slightly awake vanishes.  She burrows down into the blankets, still clothed in workday clothes that smell faintly like lightning, exhausted to her core.

Dad and Barry continue to argue in the adjacent room, more good-natured than serious. 

Tuning them out, she shuts her eyes and dreams of her dinosaur babies on fire.

* * *

 

T-minus 219 days.

Iris awakes at three in the morning.

She blinks at her phone sluggishly, turning onto her side to confront a low grumbling noise near her.  It makes her think of dragons, and lo: it’s Barry, the fading bruises around his neck almost but not entirely invisible.  He’s got his face smooshed against a pillow, hair wild.  She shimmies closer and wraps herself around his back, the rhythmic rumble of his Speed-purrs finally coaxing her eyes shut, her grip on consciousness vanishing.

He’s near her, come six AM, but the bruises are gone, and he smells freshly showered.  She realizes that she’s no longer in pants and a work blouse, having exchanged them for a loose set of pajamas instead.  She doesn’t remember putting them on, but she sighs happily and returns to her former place against his back, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder bare shoulder.  He’s throwing off Speed-heat again, and it’s welcome.

Dozing, she stays in bed until three in the afternoon.  To her surprise, he stays, too, even though she hears him crunching snacks at regular interludes before shimmying back down to her level and holding up an arm so she can cozy down into his embrace.  He taps silently at his phone at times and shifts positions often enough to disrupt her doze, but he doesn’t leave, even when it would be easy enough to let the Porg take over the “sleeping pillow” role.

When she finally deigns to greet the day, the sun is setting, but she showers and freshens up like it’s five in the morning, and joins him on the couch so they can watch a recorded episode of _The Bachelorette_ together.  Silver Fox, their favorite, is still in the running, albeit against strong contenders, including Blue Eyes and the Chris Hemsworth lookalike.  It pleases her irrationally to see him still in the running, even though she knows it’s possible that he’s already been sent home, because, hey, simple pleasures _matter_ , and Silver Fox is good to Dana.

Barry finishes off five of Cisco’s super-packed calorie bars in the span of one episode, which he equates to the speedster equivalent of eating fifty good-sized pancakes, or nine-tenths of his daily minimum calorie requirement.  Ergo: he’s lying on his side with his head on her thigh, only half-watching the show as she idly brushes a hand through his hair.

Sometimes their lives are chaotic and weird; other times they’re companionable and uncomplicated. 

As long as Iris gets to keep him, she’s willing to live with both sides.

* * *

 

_To be continued…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOK: God Only Knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my friends! I hope you enjoy this third and final installment. It was a joy to write. I'll respond to comments in the morning, but I sincerely hope you enjoy.

_Intermission: Barry._

T-minus 205 days.

“Barry.  Barry.  _Barry_.”

There’s a sharp click, and then something bounces off his chest.  Weight shifts on either side of him.  Squinting, Barry blinks up at Iris, standing over him, pointing a – a _nerf gun_ at his face.  “What’d I do?” he asks warily, pulling an arm protectively over his eyes.  He literally _just_ woke up –

She tilts the gun down and foam-darts him in the chest, making him grunt.  Leaning forward, he Flashes, hooking both hands around her calves and tugging her down so she’s kneeling on his chest instead.  Real-time resumes, and she yelps a laugh and darts him on the shoulder for his troubles.  “Oh, you suck.  No Flashing.”

“Turnabout is fair-play,” he yawns, sliding his hands up to her hips, anchoring her.  “’m I in trouble?”

She rolls her eyes and sets the Nerf gun down before leaning down to kiss him with more heat than he’s expecting.  He is just starting to really settle into it when she pulls away.  “Guess what today is.”

“I’m _really_ bad at—”

She picks up the Nerf gun and points it at him.  “Barry.”

“Tuesday.”  Dart to the shoulder.  “A’right.  Wednesday.”

“Barry.”

“Mm?”

“It’s January 21st.”

He tilts his head at her.  “Is it Cecile’s birthday?”

“No.  Babe.”  She sets her gun aside and cups his face.  “It’s been three months.”

He arches his eyebrows.  “Three months…”  Then he grins.  “Oh.”

“One trimester down,” she says in a sing-song voice, “two to go.”

There is _definitely_ a baby bump now, he muses, as she leans forward to kiss him again.  It’s still a little surreal to think of the babies in such concrete terms.  He’s caught himself glancing at Iris a lot lately, gaze straying inadvertently to her belly.  Before, his searches were in vain, always looking away before she caught him, not wanting to stir up any more grief.  But now that bump, while small, is unmistakably _present_.  It’s a gorgeous bump.  Iris is stunning, but pregnant Iris is … well, he’s always stood by it: he’s the luckiest man alive.

Before he can indulge in more than a close-mouthed kiss, she pulls away.  A little disappointed noise escapes him in spite of himself, but she just says, “Go get ready, Flash.”

Obediently, he zips off, and he’s back in what must seem like the blink of an eye to her.  He sits on the bed, dressed in loose pants and a well-worn STAR Labs’ tee, and the second he hits real-time she darts him again in the stomach, making him laugh a little.  He brushes the foam dart off and sweeps her into his arms, pulling her forward gently but inexorably.  “What’s gotten into you?” he asks, amused.

Letting go of the gun, she wraps her arms around his neck, holding onto him.  The angle is such that it’s easier to kneel on the bed than stand in front of it, so he obliges, and presses a kiss against her jawline for his troubles.  She’s so _soft_ , and he tilts his head so he can nuzzle the juncture between shoulder and neck.  “Mm.  I love you,” he muses.

She squeezes his neck lightly, tugging him until he follows her.  She lies back; he frames her, weight up but knees on either side of her, kissing along her neck.  “Okay, what’d I do?” he murmurs.

Sliding her hand down to pinch his side lightly, she says, “Nothing.”  He makes a soft, dubious sound against her neck.  He loves her, more than anything in life, but their relationship hasn’t exactly been at peak romance the past few weeks, what with her constant nausea, fatigue, and self-described “I love you, babe, but I literally just need to cuddle the Porg for a couple hours in perfect silence or I will kill a man.”  Since he is a man, he’s learned just to sit back and crack open a cold one with Cisco, reverting almost to pre-dating levels of hands to himself.  “I just … missed you,” she admits suddenly, and he lifts his head a little to meet her gaze

Unable to help himself, he asks teasingly, “So you _Nerfed_ me—”

She pinches his side more firmly.  “I _could_ have poured a bucket of cold water on you.”

He shudders meaningfully.  “Forgiven,” he decides.  Her hands slide up to cradle the base of his head, pulling him down for another kiss.  “You good?” he murmurs, half-teasingly, half-seriously, because the shift is almost dizzying.

“Mm.  I could be better,” she says lightly.

Oh, he could totally get used to this, he decides with a grin, kissing her instead of responding aloud.

* * *

 

T-minus 202 days.

Iris feels like a _goddess_.

A goddess who can officially pack away almost as many calories as Barry at a good meal, which is simultaneously thrilling and refreshing in the wake of morning sickness’ unexpected and very welcome departure.  Her appetite is formidable: she’s making up for lost time _and_ eating for three.  She deserves a little food comfort.  She survived the first trimester.  One hurdle down.  Two to go.

She’s _earned_ this bag of chips and salsa.  Earned it.  Has _Barry_ earned it?  No.  That jerk.

Back at the gym, she’s almost back to her ordinary routine, thriving in the wake of her newfound energy.  The only catch is that she’s had to switch from the belly-revealing crop tops to full-length shirts to disguise the no-longer-invisible bump.  She’s finally feeling the pregnancy glow, but she isn’t quite ready to field off strangers who want to rub her belly for good luck.  It’s not a lucky charm.

Still, almost unconsciously, she finds herself caressing the baby bump throughout the day.  Reading a book, reaching for a high shelf, sitting on the train, even running the show at STAR Labs – her hand strays over the bump, just _admiring_ its existence because hello, world: I Am Pregnant.  She catches Barry’s gaze on the bump more and more, drawn to the movement, and his perennial smile is a nice sight.

Absurdly, amusedly, she thinks he must be kind of jealous: she gets to have all the baby bump fun to herself.  But when he hugs her, he still gets to feel it, so he’s not _entirely_ cut out from the picture.  And unlike the strangers on the streets who will indubitably reach for her belly at some point that feels years away, he’s allowed to touch.

Not too much.  Simultaneously cozy and coy, she deliberately keeps space between them when they’re together at STAR, but then she’ll show up at the CCPD just to distract him at the end of his workday.  Winn likes to linger and chat about anything and everything, a repertoire of the weirdest trivia she’s ever heard (even Barry’s brand of nerd seems oddly unversed next to the Wikipedic level of knowledge Winn Schott Jr., At Your Service brings to the table).  She comes to appreciate his presence, even if she’s equally pleased when she finds Barry along because, hey, distractions are fun for both of them.

She feels _good_ , fit, strong, robustly and emphatically pregnant.  Her shirts still fit pretty well, even though she’s already bumped up a size in pants.  (And, perhaps fittingly, bras.  The “Miracle of Creation” is an interesting experience.  She still wants a refund on the heightened sense of smell, but at least Barry’s cologne doesn’t make her gag anymore.)  She’s pregnant, but, in true middle school vernacular, she’s not _pregnant_ , pregnant.

Not like, beached-whale pregnant.  That’ll come, she knows, but it feels literally _years_ away.

Right now, fit and fun and full of zest, she’s just happy to express her appreciation of the change.

* * *

 

T-minus 200 days.

When Cindy asks them about their babymoon, Iris and Barry exchange a look.  “Babymoon?” Iris says at last.

That leads to a fun Google search (thank God for Google, honestly; she would have been lost in the first trimester without the consolation that It Really Does Get Better in the second).  Subsequently, they realize they have to capitalize on it.  After all, it’s like finding out you get _two_ birthdays in one year.  Who would say no?

People who don’t like cake, she thinks, sitting on Barry’s back while he does push-ups, ostensibly because he’s bored and she’s willing, but mostly because he likes showing off how much fitter he is than a certain Star City mayor who can apparently bench two-hundred-and-fifty pounds.  (Barry can, too, but not without Speed, which is cheating, according to his Man Pride.  Iris has no qualms with Man Pride when it means she gets to just hang out while he shows off.  He’s earned those abs.)

There are a _lot_ of options for a babymoon.  Furthermore, given Barry’s extraordinary abilities, there’s literally no place on Earth they can’t go.  Barry throws out the remotest locations on Earth just to tease her, back getting warmer the longer she stays on it, scrolling through her phone.  The beach appeals to them, but they’ve already been to the beach on any number of weekend jaunts _and_ their honeymoon.

“What about Europe?” she muses.

“Europe’s nice,” he says, breathing a little more forcefully now.  “But it’s also cold in the winter.”

Humming, she muses, “Australia?"

Chuckling, he says, “I love your faith in me, but that’s a pretty long hike, even for me.  Over open water, no less.”

“Okay, what’s your vote?”

He makes a sound that is the verbal equivalent of a shrug.  “Lord Google knows more than I do.”

“Lord Google isn’t my husband,” she points out, but she types in babymoon vacations anyway.  Beach, beach, beach – “Oh, hey, we could go shopping in – wait for it – _New York City_ ,” she teases.

He laughs.  “C’mon, that’s not a vacation – we could do that right now.”  He lowers himself slowly, holding steady, before lifting up again smoothly.  She’s impressed with how little he trembles; he’s gotta be past twenty by now.  “Give me _exotic_.  I want undiscovered species, gruesome diseases, a ninety percent chance of losing at least two limbs, whole nine yards.”

“Oooh, this place looks nice,” Iris muses, ignoring him.  “How do you feel about Arizona?”

“Arizona?” he repeats, surprised.  “S’nice.  Never been, but it’s got – cool rocks.”

“It also has a very nice resort,” she says.

With one last lift, he slowly flattens on the floor, sweat dappling the back of his shirt and hair.  She slides off his back, sitting next to him and raking her nails lightly up and down his spine.  “I like your Man Pride.”

“M’ what?” he asks his arms, resting his chin on them to look at her.

“Man Pride,” she repeats, and his brow furrows a little, humming happily when she draws circles with her nails across his entire back.

“What’s in Arizona?” he asks, resting his forehead against his arms, lying flat on the floor, vibrating a little with silent, contented Speed purrs. 

In response, she says simply, “Cool rocks.”

* * *

 

 

T-minus 197 days.

There’s also a gorgeous little retreat known as _L'Auberge de Sedona_ in Arizona.

It only takes a couple days to organize their affairs so they can drop off the map for a week.  If he pushes himself, Barry can finish up a month’s work in a day.  It does give him a migraine to spend more than a few hours in the Speed Force and takes more than his usual one-point-five-hour recharge to recover from, but he’s good to go before Iris has even finished prying her boss with Hamilton tickets.

It occurs to Iris that Australia wouldn’t have been a challenge with Cisco’s Vibing abilities, but she has no regrets once he breaches them to the resort.  It’s absolutely stunning.

Left to their own devices, they check in and scarcely get to the doorstep of their little spa cottage before giddiness floods her.  She wraps her arms around Barry’s waist while he walks backwards across the hardwood floor, barefoot and smiling.  It’s a big beautiful world out there, but she likes her view better.  Besides, the rocks have been there for a few million years; they won’t go anywhere anytime soon.

Leaning up to kiss him, she luxuriates in the fact that no matter how far she is from Central, she will always be _home_ with him. 

* * *

 

T-minus 192 days.

It’s like a fairytale: they dine, they bask, they wander the nearby Oak Creek and spend a disproportionate amount of time in bed.  She feels so relaxed and comfortable that it’s almost possible to forget she’s pregnant at all, loose-limped and happy.  They’re barely on their phones, only checking in periodically or using them to take the occasional couple's selfie because, hey, they want to remember this moment.  A babymoon.  What a glorious concept.

A golden Arizona sunrise wakes her slowly.  She hears Barry breathing softly nearby.  Rolling over slowly, she sees him seated on the floor, bare back to her, a pair of blue shorts on as he stretches his legs.  It’s part of his everyday morning ritual before and after a run.  Judging the flush to his skin, he’s already been out for a bit.  Her growling stomach finally calls his attention to her, a lazy smile sprawling across his face.

“Morning,” he greets, voice still a little husky with sleep, unused.  There are plenty of other people at the resort, and they’ve even hung out with a few, but here, he’s almost all hers.

“Morning,” she replies, hugging his abandoned pillow.  Her baby bump seems more prominent by the _day_.  It’s still relatively shallow, but oh, the days of her own wardrobe are numbered.  Still, she can’t find anxiety, not here, not with him. 

“Think they’ll bring us breakfast in bed?” she asks, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.  Bergamot and Barry.  They go hand-in-hand, now.

“Mm, _I_ can,” he tells her, pushing himself to his feet and ambling over to her.  Leaning over, he kisses the top of her head, asking, “Any requests?”

Reaching out, she smooths a hand against his hip.  “I love you.”

He’s smiling when he pulls back to look at her.  “I love _you_." 

They’re going to have a baby – _two_ babies – before the year is out, and it dizzies her a little to think about it.  But she isn’t afraid.  Not then, not with him there.

They can do this.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 188 days.

Maybe it’s the rose-colored glasses of pregnancy or the alignment of the planets, but God damn, if Barry has rarely looked more attractive to her.

He was pretty when he was twenty-five, drawing her gaze more often than she dared to admit before they were dating.  At thirty-one, he’s downright sexy.  Twenty-six-year-old Barry in a three-piece suit would have a run for his money against thirty-one-year-old Barry in nothing but Deadpool shorts.  (Seriously.  This nerd does not own normal shorts.)

Thirty-one-year-old Barry in a three-piece suit is almost lethal, and she finds excuses to take him to reporting events just to see him dress up for them, albeit rarely in such extravagant garb.  She’s quickly approaching critical mass of secrecy; there is now a noticeable little bump with dresses.  Another week, and the secret will be out, irretrievably.

She’s almost at her fourth month, three-quarters of the way through the third.  It seems surreal to think she’s almost _halfway_ through the pregnancy.

Maybe it would scare her more, how fast the time is going, now, but when she looks at Barry with the suit on, mask down, she’s got other things on the mind than that all too distant point in the future.

They still have time.  Lots of time.  And that means lots of time _before_ any babies are around to interrupt their free time.

Honestly, she’s just paying it forward.

* * *

 

T-minus 185 days.

Oh, Mama, she does not feel good.

That little baby bump isn’t so little, anymore.  It’s heavy.  It’s _aching_.  She rubs her belly a little in a vague effort to take the edge off, because her entire body seems to be on strike, chiding her for her babymoon-glow.

She’s nauseous, _again_ , and it almost makes her cry, because she’s also hormonal, and getting a nosebleed at work is the final straw.  She leaves midday and finds Linda, who works from home more often than not, and spends an entire afternoon commiserating with her.

“I’m not even halfway,” she says, lying on Linda’s couch.  Her stomach is growling, but the nausea is still kicking around, and she doesn’t feel like shoving down an apple only to have it return later.

“You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met,” Linda says without a hint of irony, passing her a glass of water.  “You’ve got this.”

* * *

 

T-minus 184 days.

She’s _got_ this.

Barry and she celebrate four-months – four months! – with cheesecake in their jammies on the floor.

Silver Fox makes it to the final rounds on _The Bachelorette_ , up against Blue Eyes and Kevin.

Iris is still rooting for Foxy to win, but Barry, to be contrary, has started pulling for team Blue Eyes.  She threatens to kick him out of bed for supporting the Enemy and he gives her a backrub to win her back.

Pregnancy life is pretty good, all things considered.

* * *

 

T-minus 183 days.

At the third OB-GYN appointment, they let her listen to the babies’ heartbeats, and wow, those are literally and actually _her babies_ , growing inside her.  It surprises her how little it freaks her out; melting affection is the only response.  It’s all about hormones and the “bonding instinct,” but it still amazes her.  She can barely bring herself to let Barry have an opportunity to listen to them.  His teary smile makes up for it.

They’re back again because the twins are deemed a “high risk” pregnancy.  There is no such thing as a “zero-risk” pregnancy, because no one is perfect and everything from age to health to number of babies has an effect.  They all can amp up the potential for complications.  (Yay!)  Fittingly, since she’s have twins, she’s been here twice as much as a Mom-to-be with only plus-one would be.  The appointments are also _long_ : she gets the magic wand treatment for upwards of an hour, because, as the doctor cheerfully points out, there are twice as many babies to look at.

She pities the poor mothers of triplets, quadruplets, _quintuplets_.

The mere thought of five children at once almost makes her throw up.  (She refuses to think about any higher-level babies.  Those Mamas are the real superheroes.)

As it stands, the twins are doing an outstanding job making things a little less comfortable, day-by-day.  Babymoon is an almost-distant memory already.  Everything is now backaches, and dry eyes, and a raging libido.  (Okay, so she’s not exactly complaining about the last part, even though she doesn’t know why her dreams have started to fill in the gaps left by every-waking-moment.)

Oh, and she’s busty – like super, stupidly busty, what the _hell_ – which means she has to go bra-shopping, _again_.  To be fair, she’s not exactly complaining about _that_ , either, but she’s sore and kind of cranky, she has no desire to say goodbye to her comfy bras.  Which are not so comfy.

Yay, pregnancy.

Barry, Adonis incarnate, doesn’t even get a _paunch_ if he eats 20,000 calories in a day, but _she_ gets to carry their children for five more months with the full plethora of side effects.  There’s a man behind this all.  She knows it.  And she wants to introduce that man to her fist, but first, she really, _really_ wants a big stack of Nutella-covered tortilla chips.

* * *

 

T-minus 182 days.

Iris knows she’s in full pregnancy craving mode when she asks Barry if he would ever eat the Poptart-M&M-chocolate-syrup-marshmallow spaghetti dish that Buddy cooked up in _Elf_.

Barry shrugs, agrees to _try_ it, but evidently doesn’t find it as _good_ as Iris does, because he turns down more than one experimental bite.  Iris finishes the whole pot.  Barry polishes off the free, unopened Poptarts.

* * *

 

T-minus 181 days.

For Valentine’s Day, they watch rom-coms and make “Crème De la Crème à la Edgar.”  It’s sinful. 

Unfortunately, Barry likes it, too, which is a problem, because _she_ is the one eating for three, and she wants the whole thing.  No, not one sleeve of crackers.  She wants Every.  Goddamn.  Ritz.  Cracker.  They.  _Have_.

He buys four additional boxes of Ritz crackers, and she eats them all, washing them all down with an entire gallon of milk.

Barry sits on the floor near the couch she’s lounging on, watching her with a politely stupefied expression.  Her stomach growls.

“Know what sounds really good?” she says, nibbling on the last Ritz cracker, crème de la crème’d.

“I’m scared to ask, but hm?”

“Burnt pancakes.”

* * *

 

T-minus 180 days.

She’s _losing_ weight, despite nibbling on any and every impulse food that comes to mind regardless of time of day.  Week fifteen was her peak weight.  She’s dropped fully _two pounds_ in the past week alone.  Her baby bump is the same, but she’s leaner elsewhere.

She needs to be gaining one to two pounds, _minimum_ , for the twins to be healthy.

So she stops counting calories and just eats five pancakes _slathered_ in whipped-cream and Sprite, eats fruit until she feels like she should puke and tops it off with an entire jar of nuts, and plows readily and happily through four sandwiches at lunch.

By evening, she’s eaten almost 4,800 calories, and she’s still _hungry_.

God damn, this is Barry’s _everyday_ , she thinks, and feels a flicker of sympathy that disappears when she sees her stupidly-fit baby-bump-less husband casually consume an entire box of cereal in 2.8 seconds.

She hits 8,000 before her stomach finally stops growling, but she still has enough of an appetite to top it off with an entire carton of raspberry-flavored sorbet.

She thinks it’s a fluke for one day, just a side effect of the jaunt into the Speed Force catching up to her, surely it’ll be gone the next morning, but -–

* * *

 

T-minus 178 days.

She’s still eating for five by the end of the week.

She’s also getting dizzy spells and unexpected cold sweats, which dramatically decrease her enjoyment of day-to-day life.  She brushes them off, insisting that she feels _fine_ overall, which is a dirty white lie that neither she nor Barry buy.  She’s feeling pretty sucky, and she has no idea how to fix it, because she’s doing everything she’s supposed to be doing – and consuming an Olympic number of calories to boot.

Hey, she’s feeding twins.  Maybe it’s normal.

Lord Google says it’s normal, eating more, feeling sucky.  Not in the exact same way, but, hey, close enough.

She’s fine.  She’s _fine_.

* * *

 

T-minus 176 days.

Iris wakes up in a hospital with absolutely no memory about how she got there.

Panic is her first response.  She lurches upright, only making it partway before searing backpain stops her, and _oh my God what the hell,_ but Barry catches her and says soothingly, “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.”  It’s then she notices not one but _two_ IVs in her, one in each arm.  She moans softly in disapproval: she _hates_ needles.  Stroking her shoulder soothingly, looking ashen-faced and decidedly not reassuring, _Bartholomew_ , he assures, “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Leaning back against the bed, she looks at him, fuzzy and headachy and _scared_ , dammit.  “You passed out at work,” he explains softly.  “They brought you here and called me.  Joe’s on his way.  The babies are fine.”  Some tension unwinds from her shoulder, but she’s still staring at him, confused and not happy about it.  “You were really dehydrated,” he adds explanatorily.  She grimaces but doesn’t look at the IVs.

“Barry,” she says, her voice a dry rasp, _ow_.  He reaches around and offers her a little Dixie cup full of crushed ice cubes and a tiny amount of water.  “Thanks.”  She nibbles on a cube; he keeps talking, stroking her shoulder, seated as far forward as he can be in the chair beside her.

“Your blood sugar level was through the floor,” he says.  She frowns, chewing ice loudly and open-mouthed, unconcerned with the look because she just needs to be able to talk again, screw being _lady-like_.  “That’s basically the definition of hypoglycemia,” he adds helpfully.

Her frown deepens.  “So … GD?” she asks, her throat painfully dry.  He gets up, retrieves another cupful, and passes it to her.

Shaking his head, he says, “I don’t think so.  GD is technically the opposite problem: hyperglycemia.  I mean, your blood sugar should be through the _roof_ with gestational diabetes.  Did you … skip a meal, or something?” he prompts.  She shakes her head.  He hums, sounding frustrated and worried.  _Now you know how I feel_ , she thinks, tipping another ice chip into her mouth. 

“Um.  There’s always a concern that – with pregnancies, I mean,” reaching up to rub the back of his neck, he continues, “that there’s something with the babies, but the doc said everything looks good?  Babies are good,” he adds firmly, seeing her expression, which must convey a tenth of the aghast fear she feels because God, if she lost the babies _now_ …

Dad shows up, then, escorted by a nurse, who promptly takes over in the interrogation-and-ice-chip-dispensary department.  It takes the anxiety in the room down another notch just to have him around, even though she’s still confused, and tired, and not sure at all what happened.  She remembers being at her desk, remembers feeling – well, feeling sucky, as per usual.  She was cold-sweaty and headachy.  Maybe a little dizzy.  Maybe a _lot_ dizzy.

But whether she stood up or stayed seated, she couldn’t say.  Just – there and gone.

They refill her IV bags, but she’s still feeling pretty slow, pretty low, and even though Barry holds her hand and they watch non-cable TV, normalcy fails to return.  She’s scared.  She’s also sore and sick to her stomach and wants to be home in bed right now, but she’s too afraid that there _is_ something wrong with the babies because she should feel better by now.  They’ve given her a _lot_ of sugar water.

Hours later, her condition has only modestly improved.  Barry has his chin on the side of the bed, hand on her knee, stroking it slowly.  Anxiety is written plainly in his slumped shoulders, his tense frame.  She feels it, too.  His fear is her fear. 

When her stomach growls, he tips his head to look up at her with a tired expression because he hasn’t left her side in hours.  Hours.  That’s forever for a speedster.  He must be pretty hungry, too.

Something finally clicks.

Dizzy for a different reason, she doesn’t say anything, carding her hand through his hair slowly, mostly to distract herself and partially because it makes his tired-eyes slide shut.  He’s still tense, alert.  As soon as the doctor reappears, he sits up again. 

The news is the same.  So far, so good, the doc assures them: all the lovely tests assure that the twins are fine.  It only cements the certainty in Iris’ gut.

Almost stupidly, it makes her think of _Star Trek_ , because Barry and Cisco both quote it more often than she cares to remember.  Specifically, it makes her think of Spock:

 _When you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_.

Technically, Barry would love to tell her, that quote belongs to none other than Mr. Entitled Pants Sherlock Holmes, but the sentiment remains the same.  They’ve ruled out all the scary-sounding stuff.  She just fainted.  She wasn’t getting enough calories.  She’ll feel better once she’s back up to speed.

Back up to speed.  It almost makes her laugh. 

Around five PM, fully four hours after being admitted, she’s deemed well enough to be released.  She couldn’t be happier, ready to cry with relief.  They insist on wheeling her to the ground floor, just policy, and she lets them.  Dad brings the car up to the curb.  Barry holds her hand the entire way and clambers in after her while a nurse takes the wheelchair back inside.  Resting her cheek on Barry’s shoulder, she dozes on the way home, wondering if she should tell them.

He carries her up to their apartment, saying something to her dad, who accompanies them, opening doors that Barry could probably phase through.  With exceeding care, he sets her down in their bed.  She grabs a little corner of his shirt, holding on, and he makes an apologetic noise, kissing her forehead with a promise to return.

He’s only gone for a few seconds – just a soft breeze and a scent like lightning where her husband should be – but it feels like a very long time, especially since she’s so tired and she just wants him _here_.  When he returns, he settles in beside her, sitting next to her against the headboard.  Burying her face against Barry’s shoulder, she wraps her arms around his waist, hugging him from the side.  It’s not comfortable with the bump, and she groans softly and readjusts, lying instead on her side more fully.  She buries her nose against his side.

Dad comes in and talks to Barry and she should talk to him, too, but she doesn’t want to _move_.  Barry crunches audibly on one of Cisco’s protein bars, and Iris tugs on his shirt a little, gliding a hand across his belly, searching for it.  With a confused hum, he breaks off a piece and puts it in her hand, and she brings it to her mouth and chews on it.

It tastes like iron, literally iron, a heavy taste that makes her crave something sweet or bitter or sour or _anything_ other than pure iron.  But the growling, roaring hunger in her chest settles down.  She holds out her hand.  He passes her another bite-sized piece.  Dad asks something about timing.  Barry makes an inconclusive sound.

Finally, Dad squeezes her shoulder gently and she mumbles a goodbye, and then it’s just her and Barry, Barry’s skin warm and soft to the touch.  Without being asked, he breaks off another part of the bar for her.  Its sharp iron flavor isn’t quite as potent.  It’s almost appetizing.  _Does this make me a vampire?_ she muses absurdly.  There’s iron in the blood.  Vampires drink blood.  Ergo: she’s a vampire.

She finishes six or seven bites of the bar before she finally just curls her hands in Barry’s shirt, holding him.  “You know,” he says aloud, softly, “hypoglycemia was one of the first things I noticed after …”  He can’t finish.  Inhaling slowly, he observes, “You were in the Speed Force.”

“Mm-hm.”  She doesn’t fill in the blank.  He’s smart.

And he’s already figured it out.   “You don’t think that…”  Trailing, he exhales.  “Yeah.”

She rubs her cheek against his side.  “Yeah." 

Finishing the bar off, he shimmies down, sliding his arm around her back and shoulders, vibrating gently.  It’s so nice, and her bed is so soft and familiar and warm, and she finally feels a tear slip down her cheek.  “Hey,” he croons, sliding his hand up to brush his thumb against it, wiping it away.  “S’okay.”  When she starts sobbing silently, he scoots closer, no space between them, and rubs her back, assuring, “S’okay, honey, you’re okay.”

She doesn’t sleep much that night, despite her exhaustion, and neither does he, and it is cathartic in its own way.

* * *

 

T-minus 174 days.

It’s not an exact science.  They don’t know how powerful the effects of being exposed to the Speed Force can be on a pregnant mother or her babies.  But Cisco has already successfully kept two full-time speedsters out of the calorie red for the better part of ten years, now.  He’s a pro.  And as long as she eats a few of those calorie-packed bars a day, she stays in the clear.  (Doesn’t stop her desire to put increasingly ridiculous food items together, but, hey, she needs other nutrients, too.)

It’s not an exact science, but it keeps her well enough to function just fine, and that’s all she needs.

If there’s anxiety around the edges of Barry’s eyes, watching her with newfound guilt, newfound _fear_ , she does her best to reassure him, hands cupped around his face, that she’s still okay. 

* * *

 

T-minus 172 days.

She’s lying on her side reading when she feels it, a little, faint, almost unnoticeable _flutter_ , like someone very gingerly tapped her on the belly.

Mid-sentence, she stops reading, one hand still cradling the decidedly more prominent baby bump.  She strokes the bump with her thumb, heart pounding because – another, little, almost unnoticeable flutter passes by.  She sets her book aside, and just lies there, and at some point she texts Barry because, hey, he deserves to be here.  He’s there in an instant, it seems, and it’s then, of course, that the twins fall still and silent once again.

But in another hour or so, another little flutter.  This time, cheek pressed against her belly, wonder in his eyes, Barry beams up at her.

“Babies,” she says, simply, informatively.

“Babies,” he repeats, adoring, awed.

* * *

 

T-minus 170 days.

Eighteen weeks.  Hallelujah.

According to Lord Google, her babies are now the size of pomegranates. 

It is such a humorous mental image that it gets to feature in a particularly vivid dream, complete with an applauding theater of doctors delightedly proclaiming, “Two ripe pomegranates!”

Needless to say, her appetite for pomegranates is decidedly curbed.

Her ravenous love of raspberries, strawberries, and cherries remains unabated.  The babies are getting big, now.  Soon, they’ll be _grapefruit-_ sized.

She tells Barry and he can’t stop giggling, playfully cradling a grapefruit in the crook of either arm and crooning, “I love my beautiful grapefruit babies.”

* * *

 

T-minus 167 days.

Iris aches a lot, nowadays.  She envies the days of effortless comfort.  Everything has the potential to become uncomfortable: standing too long, sitting too long, lying on her side too long, lying on her back too long, working out too long, walking too long, existing in the conscious realm too long.

The OB-GYN appointments are still routine, in spite of the fainting episode.  Babies are good.  Mama is good.  Everything is good.  She does get promoted to an even higher-risk pregnancy, but, hey, go big or go home.

* * *

 

T-minus 166 days.

Okay, maybe a little _less_ big, she thinks, amused, as she tugs on her loosest shirt and a sizeable gap is left at the bottom.

She snags one of Barry’s _Star Wars_ shirts and rocks it to STAR Labs.  His smile is big and happy, so she doesn’t think he minds terribly.

* * *

 

T-minus 165 days.

God, she thinks, stuffing a wad of towels against her nose, can the universe _not_?

Has she not done enough penance by bearing her future children and all of the other side effects? Must she also have _nose bleeds_?

* * *

 

T-minus 164 days.

On average, Barry sustains a life-threatening injury once a month, a serious injurious once a week, and a minor injury daily.

Nursing a badly broken arm in a sling, he stays at home from work for the afternoon to prevent suspicion when it spontaneously heals by the next morning.  He doesn’t ask her to stay with him, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that she doesn’t like, a silent expression of the quiet but intense pain he is in.  Sure, he doesn’t need her around – and there isn’t much she can do for him, honestly – but she stays with him because he doesn’t deserve to suffer alone.

Together, they curl up on the couch, eat ice cream, and watch _golf_ , of all things, until they fall asleep.

God, they really are adult-adults, now, aren’t they?

* * *

 

T-minus 163 days.

The twins kick often, and spiritedly.

Grunting, Iris rests a hand on her ever-growing belly, hoping to soothe the flare of discomfort, a sharp, almost-pinch sensation that is decidedly _not_ cute or “aw” inducing.

She bites enthusiastically into a calorie bar and channels her agitation into a fearsomely productive afternoon at work. 

* * *

 

 

T-minus 160 days.

Her energy soars, her energy plummets.  It washes over her like a temperamental tide, coming in great bursts of productivity and a day where she successfully bathes and gets back in bed. 

She snacks on crème de la crème de Edgar and scales back her exercise routine once again.  She upgrades her pants.  She wears Barry’s shirts, because they’re comfortable, and they fit.  He doesn’t seem to mind much.  If anything, he looks at her even more appreciatively. 

Hey, she can be sexy, too. 

* * *

 

T-minus 157 days.

How is it _March?_

It was January yesterday.  Hell, it was December just a few weeks ago, and it was summer barely a breath before that –

It’s 62 degrees outside.

It’s March.

And she is nineteen weeks pregnant with twins. 

Woof. 

* * *

 

 

T-minus 156 days.

Barry’s “How Garbage Is My Husband?” score is at a historic low lately.  Why?  One word: backrubs.

He is surprisingly good at them.  Like, ridiculously, unfairly, _amaaaazingly_ good at them.

It doesn’t entirely compensate for the leg aches or the shortness of breath (or, y’know, the urge to pee every forty-five minutes), but at least it makes her feel like her back is made of clouds, or something, for the time that he does it. 

She loves him.  She looooves him.

* * *

 

T-minus 155 days.

“Do you want to know?”

Barry pops an Oreo into his mouth.  “Want to know what?”

Iris takes the bag from him and crunches down on a cookie of her own.  “Girl-girl, boy-boy, boy-girl,” she says, taking a seat on his lap.  She’s not insubstantial, but thanks to an eight-inch height difference between them and the fact that her husband is literally _The Flash_ , he doesn’t even huff, just wrapping his arms around her like nothing’s changed.  His hands settle on her belly comfortably.

The bump is noticeable, now.  Strangers are eyeing her hopefully.  Soon, the lucky charm will be ready for their weird, unavoidable impulse to rub it.  Soon!

One of the twins kicks.  Barry hums thoughtfully.  “Do you?” he redirects.

She elbows him lightly in the gut.  “Barry,” she warns, biting into another Oreo.

He shrugs.  It feels honest.  “Sure?” he says warily.  “I mean, honestly, it’s not gonna change much, I’ll be pretty stoked no matter what we get.”

“Stoked,” she repeats, letting him sneak a cookie from the bag.

“Mm-hm.”

Sighing, she says, “We’re millennial parents.”

“Stoked is timeless,” he insists, making a disappointed sound when she moves the bag of Oreos out of reach.  “Iris…”

“Yes or no,” she says simply.  “Do you want to know?”

“You still haven’t answered,” he points out.

“Bar.”

“Iris.”

She gives him the container.  “Yes.”

He bites into another cookie.  “Yes,” he repeats through a mouthful, and she rolls her eyes at him and cozies down into his arms because: oh boy, oh girl, oh babies. 

Tomorrow.

* * *

 

T-minus 154 days.

“We’re gonna have to think of names,” Iris muses, smiling when Barry holds up a hand, playfully twirling under it, still wearing his plaid red-and-blue shirt.

“Star and Trek,” Barry prompts.  She pokes him in the side, and he slings an arm around her waist.  It’s deliciously warm out – a rare spring day where coats could be left on the rack – and she’s feeling warm and fuzzy.  She always feels warm and fuzzy after seeing the babies, hearing the babies, oh my _God_ , those are her babies.

They’re really hers.  Theirs.  She supposes she’ll have to share them, eventually, and muses about that silently on the walk home because she kind of doesn’t _want_ to, they’re _her_ babies.

But if she _has_ to share them with someone, she could not be happier that it’s Barry.

The levity of seeing their babies again certainly helps to make the cake-fest that is Barry’s birthday even better, but she’s convinced the best part is after their friends are gone and it’s just them. 

* * *

 

T-minus 150 days.

Halfway.

She feels halfway there, halfway to Mars.  A little over halfway to Mars, actually, because it’s a seven-month-trip, although that is a _very_ optimistic estimate, borderline unrealistic.

Halfway there.

They go to Disney again, just the two of them.  It’s somehow even more magical, because she feels the little periodic kicks.  It feels like their first trip as a newly minted family to Disney.

Resting her cheek on Barry’s shoulder, she listens to mechanical pirates yell and fire fake cannons at each other, and feels warm in her heart.

* * *

 

T-minus 140 days.

Iris has taken off her wedding ring before, but it feels strangely final when she finally can’t put it back on one morning, somewhere between the twentieth and twenty-second week of her pregnancy.  It feels wrong, not walking around.  She misses the subtle reminder, the quiet but emphatic statement that she’s _married_.  To a gorgeous, sweet, wonderful man who deserves to see his matching ring on her finger.

Alas, her swollen fingers (swollen, _mm_ , wow, what a _sexy_ situation – not; she’s shaking her fist at the universe nearly constantly, now, oscillating between “Everything is Awful!” and “Everything is Awesome!”) won’t let her put it on.  Barry understands.  Of course he does.  He hasn’t put on twenty-two pounds in five months.  _His_ legs don’t cramp up unexpectedly.

Actually, they might.  But he _definitely_ does not have stretch marks.  So.  There you go.

Men are garbage. 

* * *

 

T-minus 139 days.

Male seahorses give birth.

They’re only pregnant for nine to forty-five days (what a _range_ ; that’s the human equivalent of being pregnant forty to two-hundred weeks, or nine months to just under _four years_ ).  But they endure the trials and tribulations of gestation and finally go into labor before giving birth to their many, many, many, many, many seahorsechildren.

Male seahorses are less garbage than most males.  Most.

Now, when Barry hugs her from behind, his own flat belly – complete with well-defined abs – pressed against her, she thinks about those male seahorses.  She thinks, _Lord Google was onto something_.  Because her feet hurt, her back hurts, her _breasts_ hurt, and he’s just his usual nerd-self.

She sulks with the porg for a few hours and refuses to tell him why she’s grumpy.  She’s twenty-two weeks pregnant.  She’s allowed to be grumpy for no reason. 

* * *

 

T-minus 135 days.

It’s official.  Their babies are grapefruits.

Oh, God, she’s so _pregnant_.

Gym time has become “I shall walk to the gym and sit on the bench while Linda works out, eating chips and fielding off strangers who want to rub my belly for good luck.”

Shower time has become “God damn, look at that.  I am huge.  I am already huge.  This is impossible.  I am barely halfway through this.”

Couch time has become “This is uncomfortable.  This is worse.  This is a lot worse.  Nope, don’t like this.”

Work time has become “Stop kicking.  I’m trying to write.  Are you fighting?  Can babies fight before they’re born?  _Lord Google, can babies fight in the womb?_ ”

Night time has become “I have to pee.  I have to pee again.  I have to pee again.  Yes, again.  It’s 3:13 AM.  I have peed seven times tonight.  I am not going to pee again.  I have to pee again.”

Doctor time has become “Gel is weird.  Babies are weird.  Look at those smudges.  Aww.  Aww.  Look at my babies.  Barry, look at the babies.  Look at the babies.  Aren’t they cute?  They’re grapefruits.”

And when she finds it, sleep time is “My dinosaur children have taken over the world, please send help.”

* * *

 

T-minus 130 days.

Barry breaks his neck.

Oh, he survives – and nobody calls her until he is on the mend enough that she doesn’t feel bad for leveling her flattest, most unimpressed look at him.  He just blinks back at her, gently startled with a neck brace on and a pretty spectacular black eye.  He reminds her of an owl with a mouse in its mouth, looking at her like: _what, this little thing_?

Maybe he expects her to yell.  But she’s tired, and they’ve been at this superhero game for almost ten years, and if he’s not dead, and he’s not going to die, then it’s actually been a pretty good day.

She makes crème de la crème de Edgar with Cisco’s help, and then they pull out a projector and watch _The Aristocats_ until they fall asleep.

When she wakes up, Barry is still knocked out, recovering, the black eye faded to yellow, the neck damage likely already well on the way to fully mended.  Reaching out, she twines her fingers with his, ring-less but still warm, still full of nothing but affection for him, and squeezes gently, a silent _I love you_.

His fingers twitch, just a little, but he doesn’t open his eyes.  She still hears it.

_I love you._

They don’t need rings, she thinks, full of affection and aching hope, because she just needs him to _live_ , to be here.  

Central City may need The Flash.  She needs _Barry_.

* * *

 

T-minus 128 days.

Everything is more pronounced with just sixteen weeks – _four months_ – left.

It feels like no time, and all the time in the world.  Four months to nurse this big baby belly that keeps taking up real estate.  It’s cute right now (it’s also frightening, because she’s still got _four months_ of pregnancy to go).  Standing in the mirror in one of Barry’s outsized tees, she feels cute as they come, and is even gracious enough to let a stranger or two rub the belly for good luck.

Her workouts are still “I will _walk_ to the gym” and bedtime is any time she has a horizontal surface and a pillow, but, overall, she thinks she’s handling it pretty well.  You know.  For a first time Mom-to-be, pregnant with twins and trying to feed herself, her babies, and the Speed Force.

She’s doing good.  She’s doing real good. 

* * *

 

T-minus 121 days.

 _Okay._   All right.  She’ll take “seahorse dad can take over the pregnancy from here” for 500.

The _glow_ , if it ever existed, is presently competing with sore ankles, sore back, sore _everything_ for champion emotion.  She thinks the weird line on her belly sums it up perfectly in terms of “What the hell even is the human gestational experience?”

Seahorses.  She wants to be a seahorse.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 118 days.

_Lord Google, will I ever return to my pre-beached whale form?_

Come April, Iris is _twenty-seven pounds_ heavier than she was on New Year’s Eve.  She’s also 5’4.  It’s an absurd amount of weight for a person of her stature to carry.  And it’s all sitting in one place.

This was the most ludicrous plan on Planet Earth.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 115 days.

Barry sleeps ninety-six minutes a night.  It’s like clockwork.  He falls asleep and wakes up a little over an hour and a half later, refreshed and ready to go.  It’s a goddamn miracle.

Iris is also beginning to sleep closer to ninety-six minutes than eight hours a night, but unlike Barry, she is _not_ ready and raring.  She is tired.  She is cranky.  She is _hangry_.

These babies literally cannot come soon enough.  Her back is killing her.  Her feet are killing her.  This was a bad idea.  And they’re going to have to care for _two babies_ before the year is out.

Staring at the bump that is now a full-blown _balloon_ , she wonders just how much bigger it _can_ get before August. 

* * *

 

T-minus 110 days.

She misplaces her keys.  Literally every day.  She could tape them to her forehead, and she would misplace them.

Maybe this is how Barry feels about being on time.  He still wears the sundial watch, and he’s always late.  The consistency is soothing.

* * *

 

T-minus 108 days.

Did you know babies can _hiccup_ in the womb?  Babies can hiccup in the womb.  Babies can hiccup in the womb.  _Babies_ can _hiccup_ in the _womb--_  

* * *

 

T-minus 106 days.

Barry sings in the shower.

Iris lies on her side on the bed listening to him, nursing a sleep hangover because she hasn’t slept more than five hours a night in _weeks_.  His voice is pleasant, soothing and familiar.  She wonders if the babies enjoy it, too.  Hypothetically, they can hear him.  That’s what Lord Google tells her.  They’re certainly kicking around to it. 

* * *

 

T-minus 105 days.

Another doctor’s appointment!  Hip hip hooray!  They’re moving right along!

That’s Barry’s bracing attitude, at least, as he tries to coax her out of bed for the appointment.  They’re so close to the finale!  Yippee!

Iris pitches a pillow at him, draws the blankets back over her head, and rolls back onto her opposite side to avoid him for a bit longer. 

* * *

 

T-minus 103 days.

Cinnamon on pickles: don’t knock it till you’re twenty-seven weeks pregnant. 

* * *

 

T-minus 102 days.

They call it “nesting” when it’s two in the morning and a pregnant person feels the sudden, all-consuming urge to clean a house from top to bottom in preparation for the baby.  Cleaning is not the only example, but it’s a prominent nesting behavior.  Gotta make the place look nice for baby.  Gotta make it look spick and span for baby.

Or, in Iris’ case: babies.  Has she mentioned how big her belly is?  Barry, look.  Look at it.  _Look at it_.  It’s huge.

He, of course, the idiot, thinks it’s beautiful.  _She’s_ beautiful.  She’s glowing.  Wow.  What a Miracle.

She doesn’t want to be a Miracle anymore.  She wants to be about thirty pounds lighter and able to take three steps without noticing, oh, ha-ha, why yes, I _am_ humungous!  Among her repertoire of new tricks: almost passing out every time she stands up, being short of breath after even the lightest activities, peeing a little when she sneezes, and not yelping out loud whenever one of the twins lands a K.O. kick to her belly.

But damn, does she wish Barry could experience just _one day_ of this.  Then he would know.  He wouldn’t look at her like she was beautiful.

He would look at her like she was a motherfucking _Khaleesi._  

* * *

 

T-minus 101 days.

It’s finally starting to sink in that she’s in the last leg of the race.

Third trimester.  “We’re approaching for landing” territory.  Look, there’s Mars.  Look, there’s a crib.  Wait.  _What?_

She feels in a bit of a daze, lately, because she can’t drink much coffee, and she can’t get much sleep, but she’s at least trying not to be too scatterbrained about the whole thing.  Linda is organizing a baby shower.  God bless her.  Iris is just happy to make it to work, somehow survive a day, and make it home to sleep until she has to pee and repeat until it’s time to go to work again.  And down a few of those iron calorie bars.  Maybe some Doritos and rice.  Stop judging, she’s _hungry_.

She’s also twenty-eight weeks pregnant, and there are two goddamn eggplants competing for territory in her belly.  She can’t get much bigger.  She really can’t.

If Barry didn’t rub her back as often as he did, she’d file for divorce, because it is _not fair_ that he gets to look like he was carved from marble and she gets an outtie bellybutton for her troubles.  Seriously.

Maybe there will be cake at the baby shower.  She surfaces on the hopeful premise that there might be cake. 

* * *

 

 _Intermission: Barry_.

T-minus 100 days.

He feels bad, because he knows Iris is uncomfortable, but he’s also so _happy_ , because they’re going to have a pair of _babies_ soon, and just the thought improves his entire day.  He’s going to be a Dad.  Officially.  He’ll have his own kids.  Kids that he made.

It’s trippy, and he finds himself thinking about it so often that Cisco has to call his attention back to Planet Earth and Winn sometimes just straight up smacks him on the back of the head because _focus, kid, focus!_   He doesn’t _want_ to focus.  He wants to embrace the fact that his gorgeous, beautiful, perfect wife is _pregnant_.

And they’re in the final third of the race.  The _amazing_ race.  (Which, incidentally, only lasts three weeks.  He could have sworn it was longer.  But, hey, those contestants only got a million dollars out of it if they won.  _He_ gets babies.  Who’s the real winner? 

* * *

 

T-minus 95 days.

There is cake at the baby shower.  It gets her through the week.

In fact, she’s having a pretty decent week, all things considered.  Decent in the same way that Barry dislocating his shoulder is “a good day.”  She’s getting used to the weird pregnancy quirks, the mind-fogging haze of fatigue.  She dreams about chasing coffee cups shaped like dinosaurs. 

She gets a pregnancy pillow, because she can’t cuddle the Porg properly.  Barry can spoon up behind her, which is nice, although she’s restless and rarely stays still long enough to truly enjoy it.  He’s patient – he sneaks his hour-and-a-half in early in the evening so he’s more moral support than equally miserable party seeking sleep.

Scratch that.  There is no-way, no-how he is even a quarter as miserable as she is.  Because he gets to drink coffee.  And he is not toting around a magical eight-ball the size of a small beachball, that weighs as much as a small child.

Because those are their babies getting bigger by the day, kicking her and each other more enthusiastically than ever.  Those are her Braxton Hicks contractions, adding just a little more _zest_ to her life, although mercifully not _too_ much.  (Not yet.  Those contractions wait for the finale.)  Those are her headaches and swollen ankles and digestive woes.

This is her struggle.  It will be her spectacular finish.

* * *

 

T-minus 88 days.

Summer creeps up on Central City, but Iris’ appreciation of it is greatly dulled by the fact that she is a _beached whale_.

She still consents to photographs, especially if she’s in one of Barry’s longer shirts.  She lounges on the couch and uses her belly as an impromptu table (one of the only pregnancy quirks she will actually miss).  She takes long walks and eats a good deal of Oreos slathered in peanut butter.

She talks to the babies, musingly, earnestly, affectionately, exasperatedly.  She never voices frustration at them – even when they kick her, she knows they’re just trying to move all those little limbs in an increasingly small space – but at their daddy, because _he_ sure isn’t suffering like she is for all of this.  She tells them that she loves him, too, because she does.

And she tells them to take their sweet time, _don’t be premature_.  There’s a greater risk with twins – fighting for real estate like they are, there’s a greater chance something will go awry and labor will be kickstarted, almost literally – but she’s hopeful, given the many doctor’s visits, that all is well.  They’re on track.  Early August.

It’s almost June, now.

Soon.

* * *

 

T-minus 73 days.

Time flies when you’re super pregnant.

And she means literally – because either she or the twins or some combination therein has clearly latched onto the Speed Force, necessitating huge calorie loads.  She’s banking on the twins.  She certainly doesn’t feel miraculously less uncomfortable thanks to Speed-healing.  She doesn’t know if it’s more terrifying or thrilling to think about the babies inheriting any part of the Speed Force.

Time is flying.  Is she ready?  Are they ready?  Can any of them be ready? 

* * *

 

T-minus 61 days.

A full-term for twins is 37 weeks.

She’s totally fine with that.  That puts her a mere four weeks out.  One more month.  She can do it.  Just one more month.  Easy-peasy.

They’ve already packed a hospital bag, per Lord Google’s instructions (and, of course, the OB-GYN’s suggestion).  It seems strange to be preparing for labor _this early,_ knowing that it’s weeks away.  It also seems strange to search for new apartments because, oh, yeah, we don’t have a spare room.  What were they honestly thinking?  They’re not ready for _a_ baby, let alone _twin_ babies.

But ready or not, they are coming.

Leaning against Barry, trying not to feel like a beached whale, she says, “I love you.”

Surprised, he tilts his head to kiss her forehead, and he is so gentle and unpresumptuous about it that it almost makes her cry.  “I love you.”

And it’s true.  Despite all the frustration, the pain, the fear – this is really happening.

They are really going to have two little ones, come August at the latest.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 56 days.

Compared to what comes next, pregnancy is easy.

Iris is still the boss, the one in charge of her day-to-day.  It’s just her and Barry.  Yes, she has to eat consciously and cope with the various side effects induced by the fact that there are two butternut squash sized babies in her belly making life difficult, but it’s just the two of them.  Barry is independent and can fend for himself as well as verbalize what he wants or what’s bothering him.  Babies?  Babies are so much _more_.

They’re helpless.  They need you.  They need _her_.  And Barry.

Right now, she just has to keep them safe, and they’re happy.  Once they’re out in the world, that won’t be the case.  She won’t be their entire world.  She’ll just have to make sure they’re ready for it.

It’s a daunting task, and she spends more than a few hours wondering if she can _do this_ , raise children.  Two at once, no less.

Rolling onto his side, catching up on a good night’s sleep, Barry rests an arm around her waist, inadvertently cradling her belly.

It is daunting.  It’s absolutely terrifying. 

But she won’t have to do it alone.  It gives her strength.  It lets her close her eyes, and chase sleep.

* * *

 

T-minus 53 days.

It’s definitely one of the more memorable birthdays, eight months pregnant with twins. 

She spends most of the day just dozing in Barry’s arms, lying on the couch between his legs with her head pillowed on his shoulder.  Sure, she’ll enjoy doing something more thrilling next year, and has certainly indulged in spectacular birthdays in years prior, but there is something indescribably lovely about just spending a day with her husband, doing next-to-nothing, and still doing everything for their twins. 

* * *

 

T-minus 46 days.

They say _au revoir_ to their old apartment in the thirty-sixth week of her pregnancy.  Moving into the new place is a breeze with Barry’s Speed.  Everything just seems _right_ about it, instantaneously, because there is no long unboxing.  It’s all just there.  It’s all ready to move in.

There are many ways to break in a new house.  Iris’ favorite is falling asleep on their new bed.

* * *

 

T-minus 44 days.

Any.  Day.  Now.

It’s a mantra in her head, and Barry seems just as antsy as she is, which is impossible, because no one is as eager to meet these babies as she is.  They’re almost at a full term for twins, nearing thirty-seven weeks.  _Okay, babies_ , she thinks.  _Any day now_.

She’s so tired of the weight, and the fatigue, and the hundreds of little aches across her body.  Some not so little aches, too, nesting at the small of her back and the arches of her feet.  She’s so ready for a full night’s sleep she can taste it.  She just wants to _rest_ without a watermelon protruding from her stomach. 

Soon.  Soon.  Soon.

* * *

 

T-minus 39 days.

Day one of the thirty-seventh week arrives without a bang.  It arrives with Barry’s soft breath against her shoulder, innnn, ouuut, deeply asleep.  She aches to join him, but she aches even more for the contractions she knows must be coming.  Any moment.  _Any_ moment.

* * *

 

T-minus 36 days.

The week drags on interminably.  She can barely focus at work.  She can barely focus on _anything_ , Barry included.

She just wants to be _done_.

* * *

 

T-minus 33 days.

She would have landed on Mars by now.

* * *

 

T-minus 24 days.

The twins are still growing.  She feels like she’s going to explode.  Maybe she will.  It would be a rather horrible way to relieve the growing pressure on all of her internal organs, but at least it would be _relief_.

Barry doesn’t offer much consolation, instead helping her get comfortable whenever he can and pressing little butterfly kisses to her jaw.  She loves him for the quiet.  There aren’t many words that could be spoken, and none would capture the mood perfectly.  There is only restless anticipation.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 21 days.

They won’t induce labor unless the pregnancy goes beyond forty-two weeks.  Inducing pregnancy isn’t without its own risks, and the overwhelming majority of pregnancies do not land square on the due date.

August.  Shoot for August.

At least they won’t be premature, she thinks, and tries to wait patiently.

* * *

 

T-minus 19 days.

One day more.

It’s like Christmas Eve.  Tomorrow marks the first day of the fortieth week.  She can’t sleep, but she knows that’s only partially from nerves.

 

* * *

 

 

T-minus 18 days.

For the first time in nine months, a second pencil heart appears on the calendar.  July 29th.

Iris stares at it, one hand cradling her Goliath belly, and wonders where the time _went_. 

* * *

 

T-minus 14 days.

Turns out the time can’t go fast enough.  God, she’s so tired.

Lounging on the couch, she hums softly in approval when Barry picks up her feet and massages them.

Good man.

* * *

 

T-minus 12 days.

Iris wakes up and goes through her morning ritual, albeit more slowly now than usual.  She showers.  She puts on comfy clothes.  She tries not to bend over more than she needs to.  She doesn’t weigh herself.  She eats blueberry pancakes for breakfast.  She looks at the calendar on the wall for a long time.  She finally goes to work, and returns home midday because she’s too tired.

It’s the end of the fortieth week, the technical due date.

No babies.

She’s too sore, too exhausted to feel disappointed.

They’ll come.  Soon.  Soon, soon, soon…

* * *

 

T-minus 5 days.

“It’s all gonna change.”

Rolling over is an effort.  Iris captures Barry’s hand instead where it rests on her belly and squeezes it gently.  “Hm?”

“Once they’re born.”

“Mm.”

“You ready?”

A huff of air that might be a laugh on a better day.  “Is anyone ever ready?”

He snuggles closer to her, squeezing her gently from behind.  They can’t exactly cuddle face-to-face anymore, but this is still nice.  “Dawn and Don,” he muses.  “We’re not gonna regret homophones, are we?”

“Dawn and Donny,” she reminds him.

He hums and doesn’t argue.  “I love you, you know,” he says, kissing the back of her neck.  “More than anything.”

“I love you,” she tells him, stroking his hand.  “I’m scared, but I’m less scared because I have you.”

 He squeezes her gently.  “Always,” he promises.

* * *

 

 

T-minus 2 days.

Had she known when it would happen, would she have changed anything on that second-to-last day?

Embraced the backache a little long, luxuriated in the cramps and congestion and countless other side effects a moment more?  Taken a longer walk, kissed Barry again?  Been pregnant more thoroughly for one last day?

No.  Because they’re at the beach again in a distant land no one else can reach, and watching the sunset, and everything is perfect.  Her husband, her babies, herself.

Everything is perfect. 

* * *

 

 

T-minus 1 day.

Just after eleven PM, the contractions hit.  _Hard_. 

She’s barely been sleeping, but when she feels the first crushing, ungodly contraction, she nearly kicks Barry out of bed because a) _ow_ and b) _oh my God._

Luckily, he catches on fast.  He’s only running on sixteen minutes of sleep, which makes her feel better, because she’s exhausted, but also excited, and mostly, above all else, very _ow._  

* * *

 

T-minus 0 days.

They’re so, so much more beautiful in person. 

Cradling a baby in either arm, exhausted and loopy and flushed with endorphins, Iris looks down at her babies, awed, overwhelmed.  They’re really hers.  _Theirs_.  She looks over at Barry, standing nearby, looking down at the babies with the same open adoration.  His gaze flicks to hers after a moment, and he smiles, one of those big, warm, Barry smiles that made her fall in love with him.

Closing her eyes, she holds the twins for a little eternity, savoring their realness, and the fact that they’re _there_ , and – they’re real.  Then she murmurs, “Bar,” and moves her left arm, just a little, just enough, and with exceeding care he reaches forward and scoops the baby – Dawn – out of her arms.  She holds onto Donny for a little longer, but she opens her eyes to see Barry holding Dawn, tears trickling freely down his face, rocking lightly on his feet.  His Speed-purr is soft, but she can still hear it.

She knows there will be ten thousand challenges yet to overcome, many far more difficult than the ones she has already faced, _they_ have already faced – but she also knows they’ll do just fine.  Holding Don close, marveling that he’s _hers_ , that he’s _theirs_ , that this is finally their dream actualized, a reality so far it seemed impossible two years ago –

God, it really is a miracle.

* * *

 

_Finale: Barry._

T-plus 2 days.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who fell in love with a princess. That princess was no ordinary princess, but one with a heart of fire, an irrepressible spirit.  She would grow up to be a fearsome warrior, protecting those she loved, fighting for the things she believed in.  She was an inspiration, fearless in the face of catastrophe.  She knew that some things in life were big and terrifying dragons, but she still approached them with that same courage as before, and no matter how battle-weary she grew or how insurmountable the obstacle seemed, still, she persisted.

Cradling their little dragons to her chest, the princess looks over at him and offers a small smile, a tired, happy look, because she is never going to give up on the important things, and it is that resilience that shines through, every second of every day.

He still aspires to be as brave as that princess, as strong in the face of adversary, as full of love as she is.  In the meantime, he saunters over and embraces her, because he married the princess, and it is surely the greatest decision he has ever made.

Holding the three of them in the fold of his arms, so careful not to hurt any of them, he marvels at the absolute miracle that is Iris Ann West-Allen, cradling _their_ twins.

“I love you,” he tells her sincerely, kissing her forehead.

“I love you,” she replies.

And together – they are well, and happy.

* * *

 

And someday, they will find out about the Tornado Twins, gift endowed by both Barry’s extraordinary genes and Iris’ own jaunt to the Speed Force.

For now – for now, the ordinary is enough.

Indeed, as far as Iris and Barry are concerned, the ordinary is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh, sugar, I knew I left out a scene. Ahem. The fate of Silver Fox shall be revealed! In the morning.)


End file.
